It is once again time to look back on the year past and make our plans for the year to come, that bittersweet time after the festivities of the midwinter holidays when Jesus and Santa Claus duke it out for supremacy and Jews accidentally set fire to the dining room curtains, when black people must decide whether to observe Kwanzaa, which might be a silly, pointless holiday, but at least it pisses off the old white people. A new year is hard upon us, fellow humans, the year 2006, if you follow the Christian calendar (I used to observe the Aztec calendar but the goddamn things are made of rock and weigh six tons, so I gave up and now use the free Gregorian one from my optometrist); that’s six years longer than most of us figured the species would last, and 350 years longer than the dodo had time for. But what’s in a year? It’s an arbitrary delineation of time, after all, the way page numbers are an arbitrary delineation of story; we don’t read a book and say, “ah, it’s page 287 next, I remember page 286 fondly”. But we do that with years, and it’s a silly habit. This might have something to do with the fact that at the end of a book’s pages, it is not usual for the reader to die, whereas with our allotted years, the opposite custom pertains.
In any case, the New Year’s celebration is one that I embrace fondly, and I embrace others fondly during the actual festivities. So time once again, as columnists the nation are now writing in unison, to draft up a list of amusing New Year’s resolutions that will wittily chide the old year while revealing our cheerful hopes for the prospects of the next. I will make my list brief, as my kilt needs a good sponging before the party. There is still evidence of last year’s party on the front. The whiskey did make me look more Scottish though.
Be it here noted that in 2006 I, Benjamin Whitney ‘Mongo’ Tripp, will adhere to the following resolutions for at least the first sixteen days of the year Anno Domini Nostri Lesu Christi 2006:
I vow to make love to 300 attractive women in 2006, or 500 marginally good-looking ones; as a further stipulation, I will not resort to the use of GHB, rohypnol, or ketamine, especially on myself.
I will hunt down and kill everybody that ever borrowed one of my books and still has it.
I will return all the books that seem to have turned up on my shelves that don’t belong to me, except the ones belonging to my father. He should know better.
I resolve to stop picking on George W. Bush, the members of his administration, or any of the other hell-bound bipedal rectoids that have destroyed the promise of America and left her a ruined and disgraced nation; it is not for me to say that the leader of my country would make maggots vomit.
2006 will be the year I stop gloating about being blessed with genitalia of the type Typhoon-class submarines are modeled after. That’s right, I said 300 women.
2006 is the year I will stop being so angry about everything. Instead I will be happy and optimistic, because after all, everything is for the best and it will all turn out great. To help retain this resolution I’ll be sucking back a great deal of Dilaudin and living in a fallout shelter until at least late October.
This year I vow to stop writing low-budget genre movies where people die at the fangs of hideous monsters, and start writing smart, edgy political comedies. Just as soon as somebody offers to pay for it. Also, I’m going to start using those fancy screw-on script brads instead of the cheap brass-plated ones from Office Mart.
Finally, when 2006 inevitably draws to its tragic and hideous conclusion, I am taking a leaf from the Fundamentalist Christian’s Book of Retarded Media Distraction Ploys and will get offended when anyone says “Happy Holidays”, “Merry Christmas”, “Happy Chanukah”, or “Joieuse Kwanzaa”. This is because I am a Buddhist, and as I’m sure you all know Buddhism is a rewarding persuasion to follow most of the year, but all we get in December is ‘Bodhi Day’ on the 8th, celebrating Buddha’s enlightenment under the tree that loans its eponym to the occasion. As anyone that has ever tried to decorate a fig tree will tell you, it’s not worth the effort.
Now, where’s my sporran?
BEN TRIPP is an independent filmmaker and all-around swine. His book, Square In The Nuts, may be purchased here, with other outlets to follow: http://www.lulu.com/Squareinthenuts. Swag is available as always from http://www.cafeshops/tarantulabros. And Mr. Tripp may be reached at credel@earthlink.net.
