Breeder's Digest

Let’s face it, Dear Breeder. Gay or straight, the holidays are a stressful time for anyone. A time when public ceremony and private obligation come crashing together, forcing us to spend inordinate amounts of time with family we can’t stand, friends we don’t respect, and—worst of all—co-workers we’d just as soon spit on as share a cup of holiday cheer with. We all feel this way, Dear Breeder. There’s no shame in it. And nowhere is our mutual disdain made more awkward and apparent than at the office holiday party.

The office holiday party calls to mind the elaborate and showy mating ritual of the ringneck dove (or, for that matter, a middle school dance), where everyone’s discomfort is increasingly magnified by the sheer transparency of their forced, yet instinctual and timeless actions. And, much like a middle school dance (or, for that matter, the few times I’ve tried to ingratiate myself into the elaborate and showy mating ritual of the ringneck dove), the lone gay invariably ends up standing by himself alongside the punchbowl, singing Paula Abdul standards in his head, and reminding himself not to mouth the words too obviously.

Ugh, why does she always bring him to these things?

This annual extravaganza brings together under one fluorescent light fixture many familiar and unbearable workplace personality types: the skittish executive assistant, on the verge of a major meltdown when the punchbowl seems half-empty; the swaggering bossman, with his endless supply of potentially prosecutable jokes; the no-nonsense, pantsuit-wearing businesswoman, with her filthy mouth and crushing aura of loneliness; the office gay, who always arrives and departs alone, but sends mysterious text messages to unknown recipients throughout the party; and Rosemary, the overeager, over-the-hill, lower-middle-management busybee, who keeps a pumpkin spice Yankee Candle and framed pictures of ugly children on her desk, and who dons, throughout the year, infinitely gayer apparel than even you or I could imagine.

O come, all ye frightful.

Unlike you, Dear Breeder, Rosemary already knows the value of having a gay in the office. She appreciates us for our style, our sense of humor, and the level of commitment we demonstrate in leaving the office at the stroke of five each day. And even though she prays for our eternal souls each night before bed, she happily looks forward to a visit from the office gay, and the lasting effect it has on breaking up the monotony of her day. In return for her welcoming smile and heaping helping of gossip, we compliment her on her garish earrings, we notice when she gets a haircut and go out of our way to mention it, we try to show a passing interest in the framed pictures of ugly, ugly children she keeps on her desk.

Rosemary’s grandbaby

When forced to co-mingle with gay co-workers, Dear Breeder, we ask you to keep several things in mind. First, the office gay is really, really funny. Funnier than you probably realized. He will say despicable, hilarious things and not think twice about it. Without batting an eyelash, he will tell you that your necktie and wife are both tacky. She’ll laugh uncontrollably, and you’ll all feel better for it. Second, if your office forces its workers to participate in a heavily-regulated gift exchange, trust me: you want whatever the office gay brought. Not only will it come in a handsomely-wrapped package, it will also come with a complicated story about an improbable vacation he may or may not have taken, and how a mysterious old man pressed it into his hand in some dark corner of the Orient, lifted his finger to his lips, and said, “Shhh…”

“Oh no, that’s just a box. I swear I picked it up in Bangkok…”

The final reason you should buddy up to the office gay at your perfunctory holiday party, Dear Breeder, is that he knows absolutely everything going on in your place of business. He knows the salary, down to the dime, of everyone who ever set foot on the property. He knows who is sleeping with whom, who has previously slept with whom, who wishes they were sleeping with whom, and who remains to this day a total virgin. He has memorized the code to every copier in the building, knows who doesn’t recycle their Odwalla bottles, and is on to you about never flushing the toilet.

So, do yourself a favor, Dear Breeder: bring the office gay a slice of cake and an alcoholic beverage. Then bring him another alcoholic beverage. Then keep bringing him alcoholic beverages, one after another. Soon, your office gay will be whispering highly confidential secrets that could get him, you, or the CEO fired at any moment. And that’s the true spirit of the holidays, isn’t it, Dear Breeder? That once a year, an office can come together, putting aside petty differences and pent-up workday frustrations, to unite in the shocking realization that Rosemary, with little more than a GED and 30 years of service to the company, makes more than all of us combined.

Now, bring me another alcoholic beverage, Dear Breeder, and let’s talk about what we can do to get that bitch fired.