Like a meandering skunk, the year 2020 is within smelling distance. It’s time to dust off my miserably failed 2019 New Year’s Resolutions and see if they transfer to 2020.
Such a strange but comfortable date to write — 2020. It has symmetry, balance and hope.
On paper at least, I like the idea of kindness. Yes. People should be kinder to me. As for my own list? Well. I suppose I could work on kindness, especially to Progressives.
Heavens. They vex me.
Laughing like a madman, I’m oft-tempted to drag a mannequin dressed up like the world’s grumpiest teenager Greta “You’ve Stolen My Childhood!!!!!!” Thunberg behind a coal-powered 12-ton SUV and sideswipe all the Volvos parked outside the headquarters of the local SCV Democratic Alliance.
I ask you.
Why do Democrats have cars in the first place?
Blew that New Year’s resolution already.
No. Wait! I’ve still got five days of more bad behavior! Yay! Which reminds me. What do Democrat politicians and porn stars have in common? They’re both adept at changing positions in front of a camera.
Big smile. Positively liberating to get that off one’s chest.
Other New Year’s Resolutions? There’s always the standard Lose That Unwanted Weight after the New Year. I’ve a metaphysical question. Is that the same weight I tried to lose in 1986?
Wouldn’t it be much easier on me to go up to other people and tell them they need to lose weight?
Santa Claus is terribly miscast and wasted on the youth. St. Nick could better serve us more needful adults by giving us New Year’s Resolution presents. I’d make out my list and tape it to the blender that made those thirst-quenching 413 peach margaritas New Year’s Eve. Prior to 2 p.m. Jan. 1 (the official start of 2020) Santa visits. He reads my list and I wake. My head again is covered in thick, luxurious, curly hair. There’s no puffy dark circles under my eyes or on the balls of my feet and magically I’ve the ability to tithe. Bonus? I can play the piano (adeptly), run without using the word, “ow” and, suddenly, many of my friends have stopped being so annoyingly and wrongly opinionated.
Now there’s a world worth living in.
I’ve so many years of failed New Year’s Resolutions, dating back to my freshman year in college when I vowed: “No. 236 — Destroy all enemies; Tilt head back, close eyes and drink in the lamentations of their widows.”
Of course, not all my goals have been failures. From 1956, I still won’t eat cauliflower and I don’t particularly care for people who do. I still ask the manager how many emotional support dogs I can bring into Whole Foods at one time and do they have a Vietnamese section where I might sell some of them. This is in no way an admission of guilt, but since May 2019, I stopped calling Human Resources at the local radio station to ask if they have Prince Albert in a Can. Then I’d blurt: “WELL LET HIM OUT, HE’S A TRANSGENDER!” followed by “AM I ON THE AIR?”
THEN I’d hang up.
If only for enlightened self-interest, I probably should stop sneaking onto The Signal’s web Opinion Page and “adjusting” responses from some of our readers, especially the more frothy Democrat ones.
Is it wrong to change: “!!!!!I HOPE THAT ORANGE CHEETOS HEAD TRUMP GETS IMPEACHED AND BEES EAT HIM!!!!!”
“Heavens that Donald Trump is a handsome and powerful man! I want to kiss him and marry him and have his baby I’m kissing my pillow SMOOO-MOOO-MOOOO-MOOOO-MOOCH!!”
Can I actually control myself, in 2020? Can I NOT walk up behind Dr. Greg Jenkins and warmly slap him on the back, leaving a large 8-by-10 yellow Post-it that reads: “FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR?”
Is there hope for me in 2020 to NOT refer to our former live nude lesbian congresswoman as — Whatzerthrouple?
In 2020, will I need divine intervention to stop kidding my dear pal, van-Dr. van-Dianne van-van van-Hook? Did the 2019 creation of a fake classified ad calling for: “40,000 alley cats, out-of-work Keno waitresses and Abyssinians who are interested in being buried alive underneath the new, 12,000-foot pyramid office/UFO Landing Beacon of COC’s Chancelorette…” go too far?
I hear van-Di’s building a waterway connecting the Valencia campus to her summer home in the Tetons. With the right drumbeat, takes the slaves just three weeks to row the 1,200-foot barge to Wyoming…
Perhaps I’ll start with just simple things. Like not using aerosol cans of Cheese Whiz to inflate the tires of the outgoing board of Hart District trustees. Or continue to not attend those terribly interesting City Council meetings where Marsha McLean yodels.
Stick to the attainable stuff.
Like tranquilizing SClarita Mayor Cameron “Diaz” Smyth and towing him in his bed through the Dapper Dan Car Wash.
No Miracle Liquid Wax, of course and I’d ask car wash staff to not spray his undercarriage.
Many of these resolutions are doable.
But what of the unforeseen?
I’m at Peet’s Coffee. Bump into Swedish teen pest outside, scolding our local condo monkeys. Will I be able to NOT square dance in front her while making frapping armpit trombone sounds and sing, neener-neener fashion:
“I Used Greta’s Ox-Y-Gen!! I Used Greta’s Ox-Y-Gen!!”
Can’t make promises…
This is the old, 2019 John Boston, a local writer. The new, improved John Boston appears next Friday, Jan. 3, 2020. Maybe…