As I have written elsewhere, the entire concept of New Year's Resolutions implies a pointless repetition that is counterproductive at best and possibly dangerous to our fragile economic recovery. You can't resolve something until you admit that your first attempt to solve whatever the problem was failed, no doubt miserably, resulting in feelings of inadequacy which define each individual in this nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™).
The obvious solution to the resolution problem is better research, better understanding, and better planning. The idea of getting to December 31 ever fucking year only to have to admit what a total fucking failure you have been since those heady days following your miraculous birth with all its potential eventually takes its toll, even on the most self-deluded of optimistic pollyannas.
If you want to waste your time resolving problems you have yet to fully imagine, go ahead. Be my Edgar Guest. I prefer simply identifying insignificant problems — like my penis, for instance — and imagining ways in which they will eventually grow impossibly large and unwieldy, throwing the Earth off its axis and making a sequel to 2012 highly unlikely.
I expect that next year will inspire me to continue to do whatever I'll end up doing the year after that, as I find myself — like everyone — trapped in a moment with no future or past, where only what I am typing right now can be fully understood and then only for a moment as the neurons race between points I do not care about and do not matter.
I noticed today that those nasty al Qaeda boys up and wiped out a CIA station chief and a bunch of our high-paid spooks in Khost — pronounced ghost — Afghanistan, to earn a few words by the Big O about bravery and honor, while the collateral damage of the never-ending reelection campaign war on reason continues and bits and pieces of flesh and bone are gathered to prove our successes as the greatest and most freedom-loving nation of miserable fucks on the entire planet of doomed and onery assholes.
I've written about all this before, and I know I will write about it again, but it's nice to poke around the hard drives and post things on Uncommon Sense that still apply and will probably always apply to the American Way.
For instance, today I found a sports metaphor, something about Microsoft's wildly successful Zune, and a little Strom Thurmond to make your journey into the known unknown a little bit lighter. If you can't enjoy at least an hour of spastic belly-laughs each day, you are doomed to go to Heaven, which Mark Twain would never have wished even on the electric company.
So let me part this year by passing along a little advice for any of my readers who need a little bucking up in these tough political, economic, and sociopathic times. Repeat after me:
What does not kill me, makes me fart.
Now go watch some football and get drunk, or vice versa.