BY ZEITGEISTY

Oh my aching head.

I woke up this afternoon with only a vague recollection of what happened the night before. New Year’s Eve…I partied like it was 2009. Luckily I had a notepad with me, so I was able to jot down a few thoughts, ruminations, and observances. Unfortunately, the further I traveled into the night, the less discernible my scribblings became. I will do my best however, to decipher the hieroglyphics, and perhaps piece together what exactly went on last evening.

Absinthe…last time, not so impressed, this time way harsh man. This shit tastes like I’m going down on Mr. Licorice. How long do I have to drink this shit? Permission to stop captain? Feels like I’ve been gargling paint thinner, I can’t taste anything but Mr. Licorice. This salami taste like licorice.

Twilight Zone marathon. Who came up with the idea that the Twilight Zone and New Years Eve go together? Two great tastes that taste great together. Your Twilight Zone is in my New Years Eve… fuck you Muldoon, your New Years Eve is in my Twilight Zone! I suppose there is a distinct melancholy to the program that compliments the occasion quite nicely. I like the episode where the kid is stuck in the 4th dimension underneath her bed. I haven’t seen this one tonite though, just a bunch of the lame-os. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the Zones, but when they were bad, they were just BAD!

Howie Long, I don’t dig you man. You look like an erect penis with a buzz cut, and you hawk ugly cars.

My friend has accused me of having a jejune sense of humor. I take offense, I’ve always felt my sense of humor was more jejuly-ish. He doesn’t think I’m very punny.

Dick Clark, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. I appreciate the fact that you’ve had a stroke, but that doesn’t give you the right to ruin my evening.

J-lo, you’ve hit the wall, and apparently it was face first. What’s with the ridiculous cat suit? Eventually there comes a time in everyone’s life when they must accept their limitations, and your time has come…and gone. Your ass which at one time was globally revered for it’s unique curvaceousness, now just looks like 30 pounds of Yoplait stuffed into an old pair of L’eggs, sized x-small.

Ryan Seacrest, how short are you anyway? You appear to be quite miniscule.

Oh…Mr. Licorice, you’re running through my system like Drano, I fear I may shit my pants before this night is through. 2000s, you sucked so severely. Perhaps shitting my pants might be an appropriate ending to this abominable decade. Bush, Cheney, Limbaugh, Palin, all the underwhelming dates, and uninspiring relationships. It’s impacted in my colon like rotting meat. The absinthe will do the trick – I have hope.

2010, the Huffington Post has an article stating that I should pronounce you “twenty-ten.” Huffington Post, go fuck yourself.

Watching the Inglourious Basterds. It’s ok I guess, however, I count five endless scenes  where the characters sit around a table as tension mounts to a decided anti-climax. They should have called this flick “The Tables Of Tension”. The character of Shoshana looks like Jeremy Miller from Growing Pains with a wig.

Shit… it’s almost midnight, gather ’round everyone and lets count down.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! The ball has dropped, Dick Clark is garbling something unintelligible. Ryan Seacrest is hopping about like a leprechaun, and J-Lo and her Yoplait ass is flitting across the screen. Everything’s blurry. I call my girlfriend who’s visiting her father in Texas, she’s an hour behind, or two hours I’m not sure.

I kiss the dog and pass out.