Somebody once tried to put me into a hypnotic trance back in university, but it didn't take. I don't know if my steel-trap mind was just too overpowering or if she was, in fact, a sub-par hypnotist. She did have a lovely soothing voice though, and I recall being very relaxed by the end of the session. I did not, however, cluck like a chicken nor sing My Heart Will Go On.
After being shamefully absent for the past five years, the Spousal Unit and I are making an appearance at his company Christmas bash this weekend. In addition to the glass-in-hand small talk, trying to remember that guy's name, the ubiquitous slices of roast beef, and the inevitable classic country-rock dance floor selections, there will also be some after-dinner entertainment in the form of a hypnotist.
This is not unprecedented; there was also a hypnotist who performed at the company Christmas party some ten years ago, which yielded some satisfyingly cringe-worthy results. This year I am hoping for some picture-perfect Jersey Shore moves and perhaps some yodeling.