Dancing frenziedly around some vertical totem to repetitive rhythms is a primal human instinct, whether it is the cannibalistic Ogzobi tribe and their fertility god symbol or middle management and their office Christmas tree. Personally I prefer the music at the Ogzobi festivities, but that's just my opinion. Their fire-water is also vastly superior to our case of Stella Artois and bargain bin Pinot Noir, although when it comes to party finger-food I draw the line at Ogzobian petit-fours (apparently they discard the thumbs along with most of the elbow meat).
Still, however awful the prospect may be, you must wear the mask of jollity and join the merry throng in decorated conference room or torch-lit jungle clearing; become trapped into a tedious discussion about fax paper protocol with that idiot from sales, or a dreary symposium on spear-sharpening with the headhunter from the hut next door; pretend that you really like the seasonally scented candle from your Secret Santa, even if it actually smells like a reindeer stable after feeding time, which it undoubtedly will, or grudgingly agree that the Chief can have the extra eyeball, which you know damn well that he'll snatch up anyway.
Such is human nature and its proclivities at group gatherings. The uncivilized gatecrash the uncivilized, whether it is the Ogzobi tribe and their ancestor-disrespecting outcasts or middle management and its greasy lounge lizards. Ah yes, company revelry: the flesh is always willing but the spirit is forever weak.
