Back In Effect for 2008, Bitches!

Okay:

Much apologies for the unannounced hiatus. I took the entire month of December off, without notice, to soul search and discover what it is that I should be trying to accomplish with this here blog. I still don't have an answer, but fuck it, I enjoy doing it, and my three faithful readers apparently enjoy reading it.

It is 2008 now, and my winter vacation was a much needed break from the spirit-crushing hustle and bustle of teaching today's troubled youth. In case you didn't know, I don't celebrate Christmas--or I try not to celebrate Christmas. Thing is, people won't let you not celebrate Christmas. Invariably, when you tell someone they always look at you with pity, like you just told them you have a terminal illness. Sometimes they're incredulous. "You don't celebrate Christmas, at all?" they say. "You don't give no gifts or nothing?"

My daughter asked me, "Daddy, why don't you celebrate Christmas?"

"Because Santa Claus is bullshit and daddy doesn't believe in Jesus," I said.

She looked at me curiously, "But you do like Jesus, don't you?"

No, no, no. You all can keep Christmas. I was just sitting around, drinking egg nog, waiting on New Year's.

I love New Year's.

Everybody's drunk and happy and eager to make sex with strangers. Everyday should be New Year's.

This year I went to a friend's house party in Adam's Morgan. A quaint little basement apartment with good music, friendly people and plenty of booze. I brought a bottle of champagne and commenced to mingling. There were many laughs to be had.

This little gump walked in with this stallion amazon fucking brick shit house. This woman was ready for King magazine, I shit you not. And she had these huge, massive, mammoth tits, squeezed together and pushed up through the top of a white blouse. I'm sure there were other people in the room, but for a moment, it was just me and her titties. I wanted to take off my watch and shoes and swan dive into her cleavage, curl up into the fetal position and put my thumb in my mouth while she read me Dr. Seuss. Glorious tits. Epic tits. I drooled a little bit.

But, alas, there was nothing I could do about it. He never left her side for a split second. I personally wouldn't leave the house with a woman dressed like that. But to each his own.

She could have sent one of her tits to Time Square and let them drop that instead of the ball.

She could send the other tit to ring the bell on opening day at Wall Street.

If one of her tits was in the GOP, it would get the nomination. Her other tit could be VP.

Okay, I think I'm done now.

Wait...they should send one of her tits to Hollywood to end the Writer's Guild strike.

Alright. Now I'm done.

At five minutes to midnight, I found myself standing alone with a glass of champagne. We were all gathered around the television, waiting patiently. Mostly everyone was coupled up. A brief sadness washed over me. Then it was gone and I was alright again. Then this woman who was sitting on the sofa motioned for me to sit next to her. She wasn't ugly. No Oscar-worthy tits, but definitely not a complete cast away. She had this big inexcusable coiffure, like a 1988 Vanessa Huxtable thing. Kind of like a Border Collie. Or like Ted Ross in The Wiz. But she was friendly.

"I want a kiss," she said. "I want to be kissing a man at midnight because that means I'll be kissing a man all year."

"Fine with me," I said. I was secretly wondering whether or not this casual kiss would turn into drunken wild New Year's sex in the bathroom. That would be nice, I imagined. And a first for me. But I've heard stories.

12:00. HAPPY NEW YEAR. A big kiss on the lips from a complete stranger.

Unfortunately, it didn't end there. She followed me around all night. Asking for more kisses and making dirty little double entendres in mixed company. A drunk floozy. No thanks, shorty!

Is this how I will spend the rest of my year? Running from repulsive women? Let's hope not.

My resolutions?

Well, I don't wanna jinx myself. We'll talk.

Hope all is well with you.

Thanks for reading.


Okay...one more. I think one of her tits killed Bhutto.

REDSKINS TO THE BOWL!

Tip of the day: Don't kid yourself. There's no such thing as a clean butthole.