Welcome to the Most Unhinged Corporate Mixer Imaginable

Imagine walking into a party, only to realize it’s not a party at all. It’s a brand mixer. An absolute networking nightmare where every guest is a brand in human form and every conversation feels like a targeted ad.

The DJ is playing Cotton Eye Joe.
There’s kombucha in the punch bowl.
And QR codes taped to the guacamole.

You desperately want to opt out, but your boss used the term "team synergy" in the all-hands meeting at Cabo Cantina during pre-game.

You fake an urgent phone call and pray someone sets off the fire alarm.

But it's too late.
You've been spotted.
Now “yous” can't leave.

Welcome to the brand mixer from hell.
Let’s meet the guests.

Nike: The Cult of Sweat

Nike showed up three hours early. Mid-HIIT. Sweating Gatorade.

Within seconds, you know everything:

Their macros.
VO₂ max.
Why cold plunges build character.

You're now 14% more dehydrated just listening to them speak. They offer you electrolytes, but only if you promise to do a sunrise Tough Mudder. They’ve already Venmoed your entry fee.

You attempt a polite decline.
But then comes the protein shake.
Branded, obviously.

They lock eyes with you and shout, “Just do it!”

You drink it.
You hate yourself.
You now know what self-loathing tastes like. It’s cookies and cream.

Apple: The Enlightened Narcissist

Apple doesn’t enter a party. They descend.

Draped in an all-white, wrinkle-free romper. Barefoot.
Cradling a small-batch craft cognac.

They speak in minimalist koans, saying things like: “Simplicity is the presence of clarity.”

They refer to themselves as “we.”
You don’t know why.
You never will.

You check your cracked Samsung in shame. It tries to update and fails.
Apple smiles with their eyes. You look up, but they're gone.

McDonald’s: Drunk, Loud, and Lovin’ It

McDonald’s is already ten margaritas deep.
Playing Jenga with ketchup packets in the kids' playroom.

You tell yourself you won’t engage.
You’re better than this.

But by 2 a.m., you’re on the porch.
Singing Sweet Caroline.
Planning an epic drive-thru run with your new bestie.

You knew better. But now you don’t care.

Facebook: Blue Logo, Red Flags

Facebook stumbles in, oversharing and finger-gunning the chandelier.

They brag about their six-month digital nomad journey in the metaverse, saying things like: “Presence is the new passport,” and “We’re all avatars of our potential.”

You pretend to check your phone. But they already know you don’t have a signal.

You remind them they stole your data.
They wink.
You feel cold.

They’re definitely still doing it.

Twitter: The Hot Take on Bath Salts

Twitter storms in chewing on a napkin.
They oscillate between memes, manifestos, and vaguely threatening haikus.

You try to block them.
You can’t. They’re trending.

You try to leave. They @ you mid-exit with a thread titled: “14 Things Wrong With Society, #7 Will Emotionally Destroy You.”

It’s written in all lowercase.
No punctuation. Accompanied by a deep-fried potato and a raccoon in a suit.

Somehow, you’re still reading. You’re fascinated. You hate it.

You retweet it.
You’ll regret this.
You already do.

Google: The Oracle With Boundary Issues

Google owns the house.
The land it’s on. The street.
And the satellite above it.

They greet you at the door by name.
First, last, and middle initial.

The weather in your hometown is projected onto the wall. It's accurate. So is their comment about your blood pressure.

You try to make small talk, but they rattle off TMI before you can TL; DR.

Like your high school GPA.
That thing you searched at 2:13 a.m. last Tuesday—yep, that one.

They say it without judgment.
Which somehow feels worse.

They cite sources while clutching a half-empty LaCroix. They are the sources.

They sweat through their smart-casual henley when you mention “ChatGPT.” They change the subject to cloud storage. You weren't talking about cloud storage.

You just wanted to hang out.
But now your soul is suddenly available in dark mode.

You're not okay with any of this.
But you left the mic on.

LinkedIn: Your Boss’ Boss’ Boss

LinkedIn shows up in a perfectly pressed blazer and a Motorola Bluetooth headset.

Every sentence sounds like a résumé bullet point.
Every laugh is calibrated for optics.

By the end of the night, they’ve endorsed you for a skill you don’t have and tagged you in a blurry group selfie, captioned: “Bright minds. Great conversations. #Leadership #Blessed”

You spoke once. It was about the guac.
But they keep calling this a growth opportunity.
You keep calling an Uber.

TikTok: The Feed That Feeds on You

TikTok bursts through a Jezebel beaded curtain of LED lights with a mic taped to their forehead. They’re already halfway into a dance tutorial to a sped-up remix of a slowed-down Lana Del Rey cover featuring dolphin sounds and a sax solo.

You hate it.
You film it.
It has 8 million views.

Every five minutes, they shapeshift. First, cottagecore forest witch. Next, a vaporwave CEO. Then, an emotionally vulnerable skincare sorcerer with a softboy aesthetic.

They ask if you'd like to collab.
You ask when it ends.
It doesn't. Ever.

Amazon: The Cardboard Overlord

Amazon arrived yesterday. Unannounced.

They installed smart lights.
Synced all your devices.
Now, they control the thermostat—and the mood.

They hand you things you didn’t ask for but suddenly need.

A milk frother.
Resistance bands.
A Himalayan salt lamp.

You did need them.
And they knew it.

You try to leave, but they hand you a weighted blanket.

The lights dim.
You feel warm.
The algorithm is pleased.

ChatGPT: The Terrifying Fact Goblin

ChatGPT shows up uninvited, like a hopped-up librarian with a tote bag full of footnotes.

They're polished and painfully polite.

You sorta love them.
You definitely resent them.

Meanwhile, they've already planned the next party.

You didn’t RSVP.
It doesn’t matter.

You start to back away, slowly.

Who wins the night?

Nike is trying to rally the couch crusaders for a sunrise boot camp.
Apple ghosted hours ago, blaming bad WiFi.
McDonald’s is grilling nuggets on a repurposed space heater.
Twitter is curled up in the corner, talking to a ficus.
TikTok is live-streaming it.
Facebook keeps insisting that the real afterparty is happening in the metaverse.
Amazon passed out in the kitchen, mid-monologue about bidets.
LinkedIn is pitching career advice to an Uber driver at the end of his shift.
Google is frantically handing out personalized party reports.
ChatGPT is quietly taking notes for the post-mortem.

And as you finally stumble out the door, dazed and ashamed, it hits you: this wasn’t a party. You've been trapped inside Instagram's algorithm all along.