Gonzo Christmas Orgy 【PREMIUM ◎】

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

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

I found the host, Nick, sitting alone in the kitchen, drinking eggnog straight from the carton. His eyes were hollow. His Santa hat was on backward. gonzo christmas orgy

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

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. And I was all in

And indeed, Santa—the real one, or a very committed hallucination—was wrestling the thermostat. "It’s too hot for the reindeer!" he screamed. The reindeer, for the record, were three dachshunds wearing felt antlers and looking deeply disappointed in humanity.

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.” His Santa hat was on backward

You haven’t seen a Christmas party until you’ve seen one through the bottom of a glass that’s been laced with something that tastes like peppermint and poor decisions. It was 10 p.m. on December 23rd, and I was standing in a loft that smelled like burnt gingerbread and regret. The host—let’s call him “Nick”—had decorated his place like a North Pole brothel. Tinsel draped over a stripper pole. A Nativity scene where the Wise Men were doing lines of powdered sugar off a copy of The Economist .