Why, hello there, patient readers. Sorry I haven’t answered your letters recently. I’ve been busy, fighting some paternity suits from my totally unrelated chain of sperm banks and fertility clinics. Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of unhappy mothers to accuse of postpartum depression under oath. (Not sure what the legal defense is against allegedly cuckolded dads is, though.)
Anyway, it’s a new year, which means it’s time for the same old boring resolutions. So, if you haven’t quit quitting smoking yet — which odds and these Camel dollars say otherwise — then congratulations! You’ve made it over the hump: one week. Your body is no longer addicted to nicotine. Technically.
Whenever I approach a new year, I like to take stock of what I survived. I like to think of myself less as a time traveler stuck in forward linear motion at an uninterruptible rate and more of a time warrior, cleaning out the runners of my time sword as I prepare to skewer another year.
While I’m certainly glad to see more people writing thanks to the advent of blogging, twittering and other terms that were previously symptoms of pleurisy; whereas I am also elated to say goodbye to the biggest waste of a decade since the 1460s (was there any good music that decade?); and because I look forward to the Twenty-Ten future, I am officially sick of all retrospectives about this and any other decade from here on out.
To make sure one is never written again, I’ve done you all a favor and written and all-encompassing one that should work for the next hundred years.* Don’t think I’ve left out names to be vaguely correct: in 10 years’ time, you’ll have forgotten most of the “important” people of this past decade, too.
*If this template still applies after 100 years, you’re on your own because I should be dead. Hopefully of something awesome like breastclimbing or mesotheligladiator fights.