"Happy birthday, Jesus sorry your party's so lame." How's this for mind-blowing irony? The folks at Dunder Mifflin had their Christmas shindig at the exact same time as this year's TV Guide soiree. Which means a bare minimum of two things: A) my life is so closely mirroring television that I can no longer function independently of it (see also, me and Veronica Mars both being called up for jury duty this month), and 2) I subscribe heartily to Michael Scott's second of four reasons Christmas is awesome: "You can get drunk and no one can say anything." OK, fine, so maybe lots of people said things, but that doesn't mean I remember them now. Happy holidays! Among my many yuletide blessings this year, my cup runneth over in the supporting-cast-making-me-want-to-pee-my-pants category, as usual between Kevin's obsession with his self-secret-Santa foot bath and Meredith's farewell-to-vodka last hurrah, I'm officially spent. (Honestly, I'm not sure which was more spectacular: Kate Flannery's triumphant moment of topless glory, or Steve Carell's incredulous digital-camera snap. Kudos! Kudos all around.) Add to that the subtle soundtrack shout-out to Run-DMC's "Christmas in Hollis" and the sheer silliness of Dwight's pointy elf ears and, well, you're looking at a true embarrassment of riches.
I hate to go all Bing Crosby on you, but the fake snow drifting down on fake Scranton made me all yearn-y for something other than 70 degrees and partly sunny to go with my tinsel and mistletoe. Call me sentimental, call me a weather geek, I don't care just call me! Wow, I'm sorry. I don't think the party's quite worked its way through my system yet.