It's that time of year again -- time for holiday parties. Hooray. Yes! Woohoo. Aren't you excited?
Me neither.
As best I can tell, there are three basic types of holiday party: the party you have to go to; the party you don't want to go to; and the party that you
do want to go to.
For many people, an employee holiday party is a good example of the party they have to go to. These are always painful events that involve spending even more time with the people with whom you already spend upwards of eight hours a day. But now with alcohol.
The whole idea is a bit like when your cousin married that guy who wears an enormous gold chain and drives a pickup truck that is a memorial to Dale Earnhardt -- nothing good is going to come out of it.
These days, most companies shy away from the traditional debauched office party, so it ends up feeling more like your cousin's wedding -- there's some bad food and some dancing, but things stay pretty mellow. If the night's not going to end with my drunkenly stealing the company CEO's car and lead-footing it to Canada, I can't see much point in going.
It can often be difficult to tell the difference between a party that you have to go to and a party that you don't want to go to. Whereas your employee party is one you have to go to, your spouse's employee party is the sort that you don't want to go to. Because now it's like somebody else's cousin's wedding.
Not only is there bad food and dancing, you also end up having three dozen conversations about your job: "No, I don't actually write the news, I just read it and check the stories for errors. Yes, we are all liberal scum."
Usually, I only go to these parties because my wife has promised nookie afterward if I behave myself.
As far as I can tell, that last category party -- the one that you
do want to go to -- exists only in theory, like those 19 extra dimensions that quantum physicists always talk about.
Having said that, I should attempt to get out of the hole I've just dug and mention that I have thoroughly enjoyed my friends' holiday parties. And those friends' parties that my wife tells me are yet on the schedule -- I'm sure I'll enjoy those, too. But something just seems to go a bit wrong for these things.
First off, every party host seems to insist upon inviting that Guy Who Nobody Knows and His Socially Awkward Wife whose perfume smells like urinal cakes.
Inevitably, I find myself talking about my job ("Why yes, those of us in the media do hate America") with Who Who Nobody Knows, and my miserable conversational skills are laid bare.
According to my wife, when I'm trying to express enthusiasm, the tone of my voice expresses instead a bitter sarcasm. So, even if I really am interested in Guy That Nobody Knows' job as a quality assurance inspector at a salt factory, I don't really sound like I am.
Another problem I have with friends' holiday parties is that the host usually exhumes some strange holiday tradition, such as a cheese log or peppermint-marshmallow dip.
For my best friend's holiday party, he concocted a batch of Scandinavian Christmas wine known as "glogg." Pronounced "glue-gh," it's basically a mix of port wine, brandy and whisky, with a handful of spices thrown in.
They call it "glogg" because that's the only noise you can make after drinking it.
I took one whiff of that stuff and immediately turned over the car keys to my wife. As it melted away my esophagus I thought: "You know, Scandinavians also eat raw fish soaked in lye and boiled. Based on what they're feeding one another, I'm inclined to believe that Scandinavians must not like each other very much."
Quite frankly, I'm glogged out. When it comes to holiday parties, I think I'll be happy to see this season end.
It's not that I've had a sudden change of heart since
my last column -- I still love the holiday season.
I enjoy being able to see my friends and family and spend quality time with them. That's why we have these holiday parties in the first place, I suppose. But I'm happy to have a get-together without the rum cake.
Actually, on second thought, let's keep the rum cake. And a few of those cookies with cherries in the middle.
Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday. 
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