I have to admit. I’m not at all sad to say, “Kiss my rural dusty butt to 2022 and don’t let the screen door catch you on the Achilles tendon on your way out.” COVID. Lies about COVID. We have governments at all levels that I’m hoping will be prosecuted under RICO federal racketeering laws and maybe even treason, that is, if we can find a judge, jury and prosecuting attorney that isn’t in bed with the kleptocracy. For the crying out loud end of Western civilization, Tom Brady got divorced. Everything in the grocery store starts at $5.99. I played the Lotto several times this year and didn’t win once. Not even a lousy buck for picking five numbers correctly.
And there’s the Democrats. Hysterical. Hypocritical. Looters. Perverts. Rioters. Drug addicts. Crooks. Mooncalves. Donkey girl scouts. Self-congratulatory PC booger-eating whining morons. Starters of one dumpster fire after another. Is there some sort of monkeying with the time warp continuum where we can leave all of them on a cracking branch in 2022 with liberal-eating zombies shuffling patiently below?
It’s hard to focus on myself when there’s so much distraction outside my Scared o’ Bears Ranch living room window. Still. New Year’s arrives at midnight and, with that, Resolutions. I think my personal best is 18 minutes for keeping a New Year’s Resolution. It was 1984. I had the flu and was asleep and actually, I think I failed at the stroke of midnight that year because one of my promises was not to get sick so much in 1985.
Well. Ol’ 2023 is breathing down my neck. Starting tomorrow, here are my vows to be a better person:
1) WAH-WUHHH… WAH-WUHHH… WAH-WUHHH… — Starting off, I’m not going to try so hard to break into the hospital. My boyhood best pal Phil Lanier is going in for open heart surgery January and staff asked that I not see him until October. We tend to make each other giggle, in a most unbefitting and immature manner. Phil’s getting a new heart valve and I guess the surgeons and nurses worry that I might ask if it’s from a trombone, which would mean Phil would make unsightly farting noises every time his heart beats. I know I’m still on record at the hospital as a “Do Not Admit As Visitor OR Patient.” Phil had a “…deviated septum” several decades back and I insisted upon referring to it as a, “…deviated scrotum.” We both laughed so hard, I contacted Sympathetic Deviated Scrotum Syndrome myself and had to have the operation where they undeviate it. Took hours. Like Phil, had to wear special deviated scrotum underwear for years, too. Hmm. Deviated Scrotum. I think that was Cameron Smyth’s Indian name…
2) HOLD YOUR OWN MAYO — Frequently, I get stopped on the streets of Newhall by members of the Newhall family. The Newhalls won’t visit Saugus, and especially Canyon Country, as they feel it’s beneath them. They ask — nay, beg — that I stop referring to the local strip mall clinic of Henry Mayo Newhall Hospital as Henry “Hold The” Mayo Hospital. Personally, I think it’s one of those jokes that never gets old (unlike the Newhalls). So. I’ll compromise. All day tomorrow, I shan’t refer to the voodoo wellness center as “Henry ‘Hold The’ Mayo.” Or, until my best pal Phil is released safely, no implanted tracking devices, either. After that, you guys are free game…
3) INDIANS FOREVER — Recently, I spent two-months’ pay ($29.45) to have a curse placed on anyone at the William S. Hart Union High School District offices who was behind the removal of The Mighty Indian as the Hart High mascot. It was wrong of me. Vindictive. Vengeful. I promise that starting tomorrow, I will make a half-hearted effort to call Bob, last of the Tataviam Indians, and ask how he’d feel about if not removing the entire curse, maybe taking it down by about 4%. In the meantime, if the knucklehead Hart trustees who went full woke by striking down the heritage of thousands of Hart High Indians start to notice their scrotums deviating, well. Suffer.
4) THE TIM WHYTE PROTECTION RESOLUTION — I promise to help add years onto Signal Editor & My Pal Tim Whyte’s lifespan by trying not to sneak in the term, “numbnuts,” unhyphenated, into my columns. I further promise not to link “numbnuts” with the existence of several thousand annoying liberal interest groups, especially the ones who wear pink hats in the shape of ladies’ naughty parts, ANTIFA, my Syrian cousin by marriage, Auntie Fah, our village idiot president, Joe Biden, his thousands of Washington braindead minions, his veep, Psycho Kam, the FBI and all the goose-stepping federal police agencies, and the bozo at the local post office who started locking the doors of the Newhall office on Lyons after dark because they were too lazy to throw out the one (1) bum who kept sleeping in the lobby.
5) MOVE. THE DAMN. HOBO. — I shall work tirelessly to move that stinky homeless guy who sleeps in the Newhall Post Office on Lyons under my P.O. box to a place more fitting (like SCV Democratic Party HQ) so I can get my mail like I have been for the past 55 years…
6) BRING BACK AMERICAN VALUES TO EDUCATION — I shall work tirelessly in 2023 to remove all the cross-dressing exotic dancers from the local public libraries’ story hours and replace them with more traditional gorgeous and fetching 100% female exotic dancing story tellers. Like Marlee Lauffer…
7) AND, LAST BUT NOT LEAST … — Making the Santa Clarita Valley not so much safer, richer, better looking or freeway-close to everywhere, then, at the very least, a bit more interesting. Starting tomorrow, let’s take no prisoners in 2023…
John Boston is the most prolific humorist and satirist in world history. Sadly, for some, the award-winning writer lives locally.
