Christmas Horror Stories

That's one of the greatest Christmas stories I've ever read. Slam dancing with the publisher and asking your hot co-worker to marry you. I'm officially jealous.

 

I'm envious, too. Most of my bosses/co-workers over the years wouldn't have been as forgiving the next day.

The closest thing to this I've experienced was the New Year's Eve party hosted by a reporter at my first job out of college (luckily for me, the highest-ranking folks there were the editorial page editor and weekend editor, who were married to each other and left early). After a few hours of serious beer consumption, I decided to pop the cork at midnight on the bottle of champagne I'd brought and that it would be fun to let the cork fly. Unfortunately, in my inebriated state, my aim wasn't good -- the flying cork hit a drop-dead-gorgeous co-worker (the only attractive woman in the newsroom, lusted after by all the young, single guys at the paper) in the head. Not that I had much of a chance with her anyway, but that made it official.

 

Don't worry Bronco, you're not the first guy to pop his cork too early on New Year's eve ...

 

When my sports editor boss told me that I had been slam-dancing with the publisher, my first thought was that I wasn't going to be working for that company much longer. I think the fact that the publisher was also pretty hammered helped me in that regard. I think the fact that he got the best of me during the slam-dancing also helped my cause.

 

Nor the last ... in retrospect, probably the best New Year's Eve philosophy came from another former co-worker who was known for his prodigious consumption of alcohol and pot back in the day (he's now a top-notch metro columnist at the paper). He always stayed sober on New Year's Eve -- probably the only night all year he did so -- and when asked why he'd say, "Because it's amateur hour." Not an original line, but a good one anyway.

 

Not a Christmas story, but had a day somewhat similar to Stagger's at a company golf tournament. I was probably 22 and was working my way through college working at a local printing company where my mom had worked for many, many years. Started drinking vodka and orange juice at about 6:30 in the morning, so needless to say I was lit up before we even teed off. The whole day was a blur. The course was about 40 minutes outside of town, and we went to a sports bar afterward. I passed out during the trip back, but I was feeling pretty chipper when we got to the bar. Ran into my boss, who had known my mom for like 20 years, as I walked into the bathroom. He gave me a funny look, but I was hammered so I didn't care. After doing my business I went to wash up, and when I looked in the mirror I realized the fellas had drawn penises and various other things on my face with a Sharpie.

 

Also not a Christmas story -- and not a Freqposter or Penthouse Forum story either -- but I swear it's true.
Some years ago a bunch of us from the newsroom used to hang out pretty frequently at a private club. Much alcohol was often drank. On one of these nights, one of the more buxom reporters was wearing a low-cut top and playing pool with a couple of the guys. Apparently they were teasing her about it and told her she was showing so much cleavage that she should just flash her tits and get it over with.
She did.
I glanced over just in time to see her lovely rack displayed in all its glory. Then, a few minutes later and after some more teasing, she did it again. So did a couple of the other women there. For about 10 minutes, until sanity returned, the place turned into a titty-flashing contest. The best part was, they were all tits you'd want to see. No 50-year-old women getting their drunk on, but rather three or four attractive 20- and 30-somethings just getting silly and having fun with friends.
Alcohol is awesome.

 

Awesome thread ... love all these tales. I have two.

I was the sports editor of the Bristol Herald Courier back in the 1980s, and our new publisher wanted to have a nice Christmas party off-site for all of the employees. Very thoughtful. Problem was, he always scheduled it for Sunday night, on the last weekend of the NFL regular season, with a 5 p.m. press start. I argued that it wasn't fair to the readers, who expected to see those results plus in the playoff picture in the Monday editions (I boycotted the dinner each year, and my staff made the decision to follow suit). We used to joke that someday there would be a fire downtown, and there wouldn't be coverage the next day. That never happened, but one year the East Tennessee State basketball team's charter plane was forced to make a crash landing in a field in Alabama. Along for the ride were the beat writers from Bristol, Johnson City and Kingsport. Fortunately, no one was injured. Unfortunately, it didn't make our paper.

Years later, I was assistant NE at The News & Observer in Raleigh. The one holiday I always insisted having off was Christmas Eve/Christmas Day because I had young children. The NE was single and didn't mind working the holidays, so he basically gave everyone who wanted it that time off, figuring he could put the paper out himself, with the help of a designer, if he had to. Great, until the year he left in early December to take a job elsewhere, leaving me holding the bag. We had early deadlines Christmas Eve, and I rushed home only to find everyone had already gone to bed. Pretty damn depressing.