Editor's Note: Due to the recent post-season defeat of his favorite football team, the author has been unable to speak or write not only the name of that team, but the letter with which that team name begins. Consequently, he will not be using that letter in this, or future, columns. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.Today is Jan. 14. The New Year has been in effect for a mere two weeks and already it's been an enormous disappointment. Actually, if you want to know what I really think about The Year 2009, here it is:
I think The Year 2009 can suck my zit-milk.
Barely three weeks old, The New Year has already sodomized my friends, my family and myself several times now. Indeed, the very first act perpetrated by this witch we call the New Year was to shatter the foot of my pal Billy, a doorman at the bar where I work, who scuffled with a contentious drunken customer.
Apparently, the man refused to leave, a brawl ensued, they fell on the floor in an awkward manner and Billy's cod-damn foot was shattered in three cod-damn places.
Billy's the head of security. He needs that foot!
She sure didn't waste any time, did she? Just a few short moments after the noisemakers petered out, this witch, this crone, this shrew they call The New Year made a conscious decision to incapacitate our old chum Billy for the next two or three months.
In other bad New Year news, last Friday, a man was shot and killed outside the club that is owned by some friends of the family, and also the venue where W. happens to bartend. I just lost two lucrative accounts for my freelance business. Ricardo Montalbán, as of today, Jan. 14, is dead. The Israel and Palestine problem has resurfaced. And, just in case there was any hope that 2009 would turn out OK after all, that she-beast of a New Year swooped down on Meadowlands Stadium last week to ensure that my beloved favorite football team—with a name that rhymes with, “The Blue Fork Fliants”—would lose to the most evil, most rotten, most unsportsmanlike sports outfit in historyThat football team, by the way—the team that beat the Fliants in the playoffs, the team whose name I also dare not write or utter for fear that the whelps will return and my throat will swell shut, the team that rhymes with “The Kilfadelphia Freakals”—is certain to roast in hell.
So, yeah, 2009 has been kinda sucky. Normally, it wouldn't be that much of a problem. In depressed times like these, I find that a six pack of beer and a visit to the ocean for a reminder about the ebb and flow of life can really put this kind of stuff in perspective—except, as of Jan. 15, that Medusa, that Vodun, that Wiccan we call 2009—in association with the supporters of Proposition D—have officially, permanently, abolished alcohol consumption on the beach!
So, I ask you, 2009, O' Bride of Nosferatu, Mistress of Satan, how the Hell am I supposed to make peace with a New Year when I can't even have a cod-damn beer on the cod-damn beach to help tolerate all the disappointment, death and destruction that you stacked upon me in the first place?
Well played, New Year, well played. You have unloaded a truckload of disappointment, death and destruction upon my person and removed the tools I use to cope.
And it has been a truckload. And only two weeks into the new year. Two weeks!
“Beware the ides of January,” said the sorcerer.
“Lick the ides of my anus,” replied the embittered columnist.
This year is only two weeks old and the fact that she is already an expert sodomizer of our collective buttocks is quite scary. From here, she will only hone her sodomy skills; month after month, she will become better and better, until autumn, when she finally becomes a Zen Sodomaster and shoves her hurricanes and twisters deep into the sphincter of America.
Now, I know what's in your head. You probably think I've tested the patience of The Year 2009, that my use of such words as “shrew” and “witch” to describe her will only cause her to smite me much in the manner that most narcissistic, immature deities are wont to smite their rebellious subjects.
Well, I'm not worried. Because yesterday, I purchased some of that New Year's insurance they have available online. Actually, I had no idea New Year's insurance even existed until I encountered a popup ad on my computer that said I was “vulnerable” to The New Year and included instructions on how I could purchase this special insurance. So I clicked on the link, selected the year I wanted to insure (2009), entered my credit card and bank information and—voila!—peace of mind! Now I'm protected from any twisters, literal or metaphorical, that 2009 may deliver. I only wish I had purchased the insurance before the ides of January. Oh well, I'm covered now. So, as far as I'm concerned, The Year 2009 can eat my eczema flakes. Have at me you fiend, you succubus. Let's see what you're made of! Editor's note: Shortly after submitting this column, Edwin Decker's bank account was emptied and his credit cards maxed out. On the way to the police station to file a report, he was struck by a car and thrown into a ditch, where a live wire electrocuted him and then a piano fell on his teeth.
Write to email@example.com and firstname.lastname@example.org. For columns without any I's, P's, J's or M's, visit www.edw ndecker.co . RIP Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Montalbán y Merino.