WHERE TO START.  The insistent “breathe!”-cow, the Jamaican (?) rooster, or the key weirdness of the shriveled elf-man and his skinny jeans, displayed to such flexible effect.  Yogie Okey Dokie’s Yogi round-up (sic from video) is the singularly most disturbing thing I’ve received all week, and it is a struggle to pinpoint the most offensive or perplexing thing about it, because there is just so much to work with.  Examples to follow.

  • Um, the opening shot of our new friend Yogie Okey Dokie and his hind-quarters-over-head thing.
  • The dance at 0:18 (trust, it is downhill from here).
  • From 0:31…  I have no words.  NEEMMPPHGGHH… UNGH… yeah, no words.
  • 0:42:  RUN, CHILLEN!!!!  RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
  • The “chicken scratching in the dirt” at 1:19.
  • What immediately follows (“Nmmmmmemememe.”)
  • What happens right after that (hands-down yogi town.)
  • “Nice anvil, Christian!” at 1:49.
  • Followed by, “Nice tomato!  I’ll save that for my sandwich!”
  • Followed by farm animals going, “Mmmmm, hmmm, mmmm.”
  • VEGETABLE, vegetable, VEGETABLE! (at 2:06) and the subsequent tongue-thrusting insanity.

So… yeah.  Everything IS terrible.  I don’t think yoga for kids is a bad idea at all, and I don’t think that this guy is a pederast – I think he’s just enthused.  But this is such an undeniable and compelling trainwreck I’m pretty sure it qualifies as high art.

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Partying with your colleagues, office-sanctioned or not, is a tricky business.  Where to go, what to wear, what (and how much) to drink are all dependent on your particular office atmosphere, the seniority of the attendees, and the occasion. 

You may work in an office in which the merits of various class-A street drugs are debated on a weekly basis, or an office in which more than two glasses of champagne at a function is viewed as excessive.  The balance is a difficult one to strike; on the one hand, These People are your professional peers, and their judgment has a serious impact on your career.

On the other hand, you spend more time with These People than you do with your own family, and sometimes the daily stresses of that familiar camaraderie can best be relieved by getting totally mauled together.  You’re invited to share your own stories in the comments (and can submit for postings), but first, I reveal the details of my own recent, and potentially deadly, foray into the Office Party Abyss, as well as a US/UK comparison.

From the trenches of Saturday:

So, it’s Saturday, and I am in recovery from another typically brutal drinks night with my office.  As opposed to drinks in my US office, here in the UK, we go out with not only the implicit but also discussed understanding that we are going to get trashed.  It’s kind of refreshing, actually, because you can relax a little bit, and while you’re not expected to get wasted and make a fool of yourself (and should make every attempt to avoid tomfoolery), if you end up saying/doing something idiotic, you don’t have to spend the next 48 hours convinced that you’ve committed professional suicide and that hara-kiri is your last practical option because you can never step foot in work again.

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