Proving it’s never too late to have one last holiday gathering, my housemate and I attended a post-holiday brunch, complete with expertly prepared eggs Benedict. Since my housemate is classier than myself, we brought along a plentiful fruit salad.

The home was accented by a mother-in-law unit—for those occasions when one house just isn’t enough. Approaching the front door, we were greeted by an arbitrary garden Buddha, virtually guaranteeing I would be the only person of color in attendance. Spoiler alert: I was the only person of color in attendance.

Out back stood five alpacas. Inside shivered three Yorkies in sweaters. Truthfully, I have a soft spot for pseudo-canines, because I know it isn’t their fault. Their tortured, frail, and always frigid existence is a living homage to the evils of man, and behind those vapid eyes that draw most in, I see instinctual memories of their proud wolf heritage smothered by self-loathing contempt for their inability to safely climb stairs.

The kitchen was ample with food and booze. Food included the Benedicts (as I’ve already mentioned), chocolates (of which I, of course, ate more than my fair share), the aforementioned fruit, pecan pie, and a mind-blowing seafood chowder. At the party’s peak, at least a dozen attendees must have been present, and preparing sufficient eggs Benedict for so many is no small feat. So, whatever snide critiques I make from this point forward are seasoned with utmost respect and gratitude. All the same... I am a comedian, and no one’s amused by ass-kissing.

A tastefully ornate Christmas tree still stood as the central decoration. Central within said tree was a Christmas pickle—the most important of all ornaments. In a nearby alcove, a well-polished baby grand piano begged to be poorly played by my filthy hands. I plinked about half a note and realized the house had been constructed with superb acoustics in mind. Any tinkering on my part would have resounded through the entire home, and may have been the final straw causing the three yap dogs to take their own lives. So I thought it best to acknowledge my musical incompetence and mingle.

Within minutes, I had located a bored teenager, and then another who self-identified as emo while downing mimosas to cope with the oppressive struggles of inherited wealth and opportunity. Haven’t we all been there?

At last, we sat down to gorge ourselves, as proper patriots must. Before us were golden plates (that would in turn hold our eating plates), as well as a piece of ridiculous holiday-themed headwear, which all attendees were required to put on before being served. I got antlers. It was around this time I realized I had texted all of my notes to the homeowner, rather than myself. Luckily, most of my notes were positive and the homeowner was blessed with a hearty sense of humor.

Whatever the outcome of my greatest party foul, this party had already earned 8 points out of 10.