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A Company Happy Hour Goes Horribly Wrong

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It’s Thursday, which means one thing: company happy hour. They tried doing it on Fridays for a while so people could actually drink more and not worry about having to make it in the next day, but discovered pretty quickly that no one wants to spend any more time with coworkers once it’s officially the weekend. But today is different. See, the company is having an auditor come in from corporate, so everyone’s got Friday off. Plus, the hot receptionist you’ve been putting the moves on for three months is coming.

It’s 7 pm, you’re on beer number two at the bar, and this is definitely not going to end in disaster.

7:04 pm: Larry and Roger show up. They’re pretty cool guys. You wouldn’t call them friends, per se, but they’re the only guys in the office that know anything about college football, other than Carla, the 45-year-old divorcee whose favorite player is “Jeremy Manzell.”

7:12 pm: Some mid-major college football game is on, so you, Larry, and Roger are sorta paying attention, while the rest of your coworkers who showed up have been talking about the new carpet in the break room, and why linoleum would’ve been a better choice.

7:13pm: Fuck this. Buy everyone a round of shots to at least pick up the conversation.

7:45 pm: Everyone loved your idea, so the group is now on round four of shots. The girls are at that point where they’re yelling when they talk, but don’t realize it or even care, for that matter.

8:15 pm: You realize that this many shots this early is gonna cause problems for the lightweights in the office, but you and the other alcoholics will be fine, so you palm the money that Richard, your boss, gave you to pay for appetizers over to the bartender. In exchange, he let’s you pull a couple tables together, and gives you a bunch of plastic cups to play pong.

8:16 pm: Betty Buzzkill, the perpetually angry HR lady who looks vaguely like Pat Summitt, reminds everyone that drinking games are illegal in bars in your state.

8:16 pm: Everyone yells at Betty to shut the fuck up. This is getting fun.

8:17 pm: You and Larry have run the table for four straight games. Roger is chatting up a busty MILF by the jukebox. At least that’s what he’ll call her. I guess chubby and busty sorta go hand in hand, right?

8:30 pm: You and Larry win game number five against Carla and Dickie, the guy in IT you pay to not show your boss your browsing history. He’s a courteous loser. Carla is not. She wants a rematch. Which is fine, since no one else is really dying to play anyway. But Carla wants to play with moscato instead of beer. Fine.

8:45 pm: You don’t know how, but you somehow got roped into playing with the shitty white wine too. Oh well, drunk is drunk, right?

10:09 pm: Everything’s a little blurry. Oh yeah, it’s your turn to shoot. Not even close. Holy shit, there’s five empty moscato bottles on the table. Time for a cigarette.

10:12 pm: You just traded a half full bottle of wine to a hobo for his pack of smokes. You are a smart man. This is why you’re gonna get that analyst job. You could not be more awesome.

10:13 pm: You puke in the trashcan. Guess Marlboro Reds don’t mix with well with the glorified Kool-Aid that is moscato.

10:20 pm: Back at the bar. You’re feeling better after expelling all that wine, and you’re back on beer. Until Dickie decides he wants to buy you a shot. He’s impressed with the flirty IMs you’ve been exchanging with the receptionist, and wants to know your secret. You know better than to question why he knows this.

10:24 pm: Speak of the devil, Hot Receptionist just showed up. Why’s she late, you wonder. Until her parade of floozy friends follows her in. She comes up and informs you that they were at another bar pregaming and she showed up so you could buy her a drink. You’re back on awesome mountain, my friend.

11:30 pm: Jesus Christ, these girls can drink. They’ve been pouring shots into you for almost an hour, and you’re lucky you’re still standing. Two of them are on the bar dancing, and Hot Receptionist and her friend are grinding on your lap. You’re not sure how this happened, but you’re convinced it’s because you’re in the zone.

11:45 pm: Hazy. Someone put on Sum 41 and called it “classic rock.” You nail the “Stormin’ through the party like my name was ‘el Nino”‘ line.

12:00 am: Starting to fade.

12:30 am: Darkness.

1:00 am: You realize you’ve spent fifteen minutes pounding on the side of a minivan thinking it was a food truck.

1:30 am: You’re having sex with someone. Wait. Two someones? Nope. Double vision.

11:24 am: You wake up in your bed. That’s a relief. A pair of panties is on the corner of your bed. You had sex, buddy. Congratulations. You did it.

11:25 am: Wait, there’s another pair of underwear hanging off your desk chair. Threesome?! Where’s Hot Receptionist? You know she’s down for morning sex.

11:27 am: You walk into your kitchen to find both women struggling to make breakfast, wearing your clothes. HOLY SHIT.

It’s Carla and Betty. You didn’t bang Hot Receptionist at all. Where’s your phone?

11:30 am: Text from Hot Receptionist: “You are SUCH an asshole.” You text her apologizing and asking what happened.

“You left me at the bar and took those two 40-somethings home because they offered to buy you Chinese food on the way home.”

FUCK.

You didn’t even get your Chinese food.

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Randall J. Knox

Randall J. Knox (known colloquially to his friends as "Knox") left his native Texas a few years ago, and moved to Los Angeles in his '03 Buick Regal named LeRoi to write movies with his jackass college buddies. His favorite things in life include bourbon that's above his pay grade, mix CDs, and Kevin Costner films. He isn't sure what "dad jeans" are exactly, but he knows he wants a pair.

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