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by Derek Loosvelt | December 12, 2012


Oh how I miss the late, great, wet and wild Wall Street annual holiday soirees. The sweaty analysts huddled around bottles of Grey Goose and Jack. The pretentious associates, fresh out of HBS, sipping Cabernet and Syrah. Hot-shot prop traders shooting everything in sight. Admins dressed to the nines. Fois gras appetizers. Prime rub bathed in au jus. C-Suiters raising, ever so slightly, flutes of Moet to multimillion-dollar bonuses and stock-price hikes that even impressed the Oracle of Omaha. Not to mention the over-the-hill crooners coughing through medleys of their so-called hits. And, of course, the terrible hangovers the morning after. Hangovers that kept everyone honest. Or so we thought.

In any case, as we near the end of yet another scandalous year on Wall Street, I thought instead of highlighting said scandals (involving whales from London, interest-rate fixing, and many more cases of insider trading) that we'd return to those holiday parties of yesteryear, when things were simpler, when bonuses weren't paid in useless out-of-the-money options, when Goldman was golden, when Lehman was in business, when Jimmy Cayne could enjoy a funny cigarette in the men's room while at a bridge tournament and no one would be the wiser. Which is to say, when thing$ were merry and good.

And so, if you, too, miss those end-of-the-year parties once thrown lavishly on the street called Wall, I hope the below holiday favorite brings back some luke warm memories of better times. Or, at least, of other times.


Twas the Night of the Company Holiday Party

Twas the night of the company holiday party, when all through Cipriani

Not an employee was sober, not even that weird dude in accounting.

The fixed-income analysts were chugging Stellas with care,

In hopes that a great beer buzz would soon be theirs.

The second-year associates were already out of their heads,

As they imagined a menage of admin assistants inebriated in bed.

And the head of M&A in a Hermes necktie, and I in my J.Crew,

Had just bumped elbows reaching for a silver corkscrew.

When out on the avenue there arose such a clatter,

I burped at the bar and someone said, The hell is the matter.

Away to the window I stumbled in shame,

Then spilled pinot noir on myself, looking pretty darn lame.

When a first-year mooned a passerby through a fogged-up window,

I knew that it was most definitely about time I should go.

But then, what to my reddening eyes should appear,

But a stretch Hummer limo, and eight huge guys with thick beards.

With a little blond driver, spiked hair and tight leather vest,

I knew in a moment it must be our surprise guest.

More loudly than the feds like to curse Goldman’s name,

The supposed celeb yelled and yelled, but nobody knew the guy’s name.

"Last night a little dancer came dancin' to my door!

Last night a little angel came pumpin' cross my floor!

She said, Come on baby I got a license for love!"

(I swear the guy’s hair was as white as a dove.)

At this point the CEO and COO were bopping their heads,
As was that old risk manager who has very long dreads.
And then when surprise guest started in on song number two,
A few females in FIG began cutting a rug too.

"Hey little sister what have you done?
Hey little sister who's the only one?
Hey little sister who's your superman?"
(I sure was impressed with our surprise guest’s extremely dark tan.)

And then as soon and as swiftly as he had arrived,
The singer knocked back a gin gimlet and away he did drive.
And not a minute too soon, not a minute too late,

Because I’d lost track of how many glasses I'd emptied at something like eight.

Although two sheets to the wind, I certainly wasn't one,
There were many among us who partied till dawn.
Spent funny money, sipped Goldschläger, and shot tequila chased with limes,
All of which of course on the company's dime.

In the morning I rolled over with a significant headache,
As did scores of other bankers when at noon they finally did wake.
The office was quiet on that cold December Friday,
And I would've gone to sleep at my cube if not for the extremely good pay.

It must've been around five, or maybe at six,
When in my inbox I received an urgent message, and so quickly I clicked.
The sender’s name I didn't recognize, and so you can understand my surprise,
When I was thanked for a stellar night, and asked, Shall I drop off your tie?

Read More:
'Twas the Night Before Bonus Day (at the Headquarters of Goldman Sachs)



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