Anybody else get those form letters from distant acquaintances every year? Man. When did everybody I’ve ever met in my entire life decide that I needed to know what’s going on with them? On top of that, since when did their lives get so great? Has nothing bad (or even mediocre) happened to these folks in the last 12 months?
Little Richard entered kindergarten this fall and he’s at the top of his class.
Bob got seven promotions this year and is better looking than ever!
I’m happy to report I’ve magically lost 60 pounds and my breasts have naturally grown nearly two cup sizes!
Or what about being subjected to the ubiquitous end of the year wrap-ups/lists from every hack columnist/pundit in the country?
No, I’m not perturbed.
In fact, I’m inspired. So, here is my Christmas form letter/yearly wrap-up.
Seventy-five degrees on New Year’s Day. We had to wear sweat pants to the beach (lol!).
Went to see how the new house is coming along. Doesn’t seem to be much change from our last visit, but there were a large number of Latino gentlemen drinking beer in what will soon be our den.
I see Janet Jackson’s boobie! A lot of complaints about this and I agree. This was at least 10 years too late to be stimulating.
I continue to go to work day after dreary day without an end in sight. Only 35 more years.
Howard Dean. Good times.
Our 4th wedding anniversary. We’re less sick of each other than we were last year at this time. But more sick than four years ago, naturally.
Ah, Valentine’s Day. Nothing like a marketing-driven faux holiday to bring back romance. Didn’t get any sex, though.
No matter, apparently there’s some kind of war going on? That seems more important, though I can’t seem to get any information on it.
Spring! That wonderful time of the year when I get to abandon the family for a week in Arizona with the A’s. Trouble in the desert, however. I was unable to stave off an insurgent tequila attack and my liver was briefly under enemy control.
Spanish voters capitulate to terrorism like a Barcelona striker writhing in the box after a strong gust of wind.
Hard at work on potty training The Boy. He’s doing really well. Except for when he smears his “accidents” on the carpet. Trying to eliminate that issue before moving into the new house.
A lot of packing. Packing is fun. Packing brings a family together, like being locked in a cage with hyenas.
Two-week delay on the move-in. Something about too much Bud Light. We celebrate by eating microwave macaroni and cheese on boxes.
Some good news. The doctor says penicillin will clear this thing right up.
Move in! The house is beautiful. Here’s to hoping we can make the first mortgage payment.
So much stress. Started smoking again. Congratulations to me. While happy for the return of carcinogens to my once healing lungs, there are drawbacks: chest pain, wheezing and The Mrs. chastising me all the time.
I start playing online poker. That should relax me.
Ronald Reagan dies. His final regret is not making it to the season finale of “The O.C.”
My two best friends just moved out of state. One to some place called New Hampshire, which I think is part of Greenland. But I met some of my new neighbors. They declined when I offered a beer. That bodes well.
So much stress. Started doing heroin again. Congratulations to me. While happy for the return of incapacitating nods, there are drawbacks: drooling, vast missing blocks of consciousness and a vague idea that The Mrs. is chastising me all the time.
Yankees looking to trade for Randy Johnson. Steinbrenner’s got a hole he wants filled and only The Big Unit will do.
Governor Ah-nuld fails to get state budget passed on time. Solves impasse by threatening lawmakers: “Come with me if you want to live.”
A wonderful month to visit my relatives in St. Louis. Hot? Check. Muggy? Check. Freezing sleet/rain out of nowhere? Check. Hypothermia? Check.
Election season overload starting to take over. I think I’m voting for socially securing my privates.
Hurricane Ivan pummels the crap out of the Gulf States. Displaced residents forced to take refuge under Michael Moore.
The Boy starts pre-school. Comes home sick, spitting and saying “Oh yeah?!?!” all the time.
Fall in Los Angeles, when the trees turn a slightly lighter shade of green. It’s magical.
The Mrs. got a promotion. Now she’s only slightly underpaid, instead of grossly underpaid. Somewhere Gloria Steinem just shit a brick.
And my favorite holiday! All Hallow’s Eve. This year, I pushed the envelope and went as a functioning adult.
Bush and Dick win proving the universal postulate that double entendre and sophomoric giggling will sway the undecideds every time.
Whoa. That Cabinet is emptying faster than the weed drawer at a Humboldt State frat house.
I start a blog. Clearly, no good can come from this. Behold Exhibit A
Thank God this year is almost over. Just one big hurdle to get over: those yearly “HEY, WE’RE DOING GREAT. IN FACT, MONUMENTALLY BETTER THAN YOU!” letters from fourth cousins, twice removed.
Holiday season is starting to get to me. So much stress. Started cross-dressing again. Congratulations to me. While happy for the return to the unparalleled embrace of a silk undergarments, there are drawbacks: constant shaving, runs in the nylons and The Mrs. chastising me all the time.
It has actually been a wonderful year from top to bottom. Started with AK suited and the board hit me pretty regularly. Small pots, monster pots, and yes, suckouts. All good. All part of life and learning. Merry Christmas to everyone. Hope you get a reasonable percentage of all the things you want this holiday season and I offer up a prayer for peace, good will on Earth and a minimum of bad beats in the New Year.