Gonzo Christmas Orgy |work| <HIGH-QUALITY>

This wasn’t a party. This was a lifestyle choice. And I was all in.

By 3 a.m., the party had become a philosophy. The tree was upside down. The snow machine had been refilled with flour. Half the guests were building a fort out of pizza boxes, and the other half were crying into a karaoke microphone singing "Fairytale of New York" like their lives depended on it.

The punch bowl was a cauldron of chaos. It started as mulled wine. Then someone added Everclear. Then someone else threw in a candy cane, a melatonin gummy, and a goldfish cracker for protein. By midnight, the punch had achieved sentience. It whispered my name. It asked me if I believed in Santa. I said yes, and it replied, “Good. Because he’s currently trying to fight the thermostat.” gonzo christmas orgy

Then he passed out face-first into a plate of ham.

The entertainment was the first sign of the apocalypse. A man in a half-unzipped Santa suit—beard askew, eyes the color of bloodshot sin—was playing a thereamín while singing "Silent Night" in the key of existential dread. Next to him, a woman dressed as a sexy fruitcake was juggling actual fruitcakes. One of them hit a lawyer in the face. The lawyer thanked her. That’s the kind of night it was. This wasn’t a party

By Dr. Gonzo (on assignment from the Ghost of Christmas Whatever)

The lifestyle of the Gonzo Christmas Party is not for the faint of heart or the sober of liver. You don’t "attend." You surrender . You walk in wearing your ugliest sweater—the one with the reindeer that looks like it’s having a stroke—and within an hour, that sweater is tied around your head like a turban because you’ve decided you’re now the emperor of a small, drunken island made of empty Champagne bottles and shattered snow globes. By 3 a

"Best party ever?" I asked.