lovely, dark and deep

For those of you who failed to adopt the new calendar system I promulgated on October 29, 2009, and I recognize there are still a few of you stragglers out there, I offer New Year’s greetings. Not the empty, sanitized, happy-face type you’re used to receiving, but the truthful kind. The kind that say, the only real question for 2010 is just how much further up your ass the boot will go.

2010 will suck. And if you don’t see today on the last day of 2009 that 2010 will suck. That’s okay. The eye doctor will reopen at 9 a.m. on January 4 and will be happy to see you. In any case, by mid-2010, that we are still in this depression, or, Great Revulsion, and that it is not over, will be plain to even the most myopic corporate media devotee, provided they get out and about just long enough to see, smell, and hear their townsfolk huddled around rusting 55-gallon steel drums, roasting rats on street corners.

Eh. What the hell. I’ll wish everyone a Happy New Year. But you won’t have one. That is. If your life is tied to the economy and you think inside the box.

Um. Don’t. If you’re even half serious about losing weight, you’ll be removing “bread” from your vocabulary. Which, to say differently, I now will liken this notion of “deft and nuanced bread selection by lardass” to rearranging Titanic deck chairs. If you need to lose weight, the number of things you should be doing before selecting between breads is so great that this may well be the most absurd article ever written.

Once.
I miss that all that mattered was the lights. At least, for a moment.
Now. Things are not simple.

Because it unabashedly tells you everything true (to the extent, of course, that truth is discernible) that you never want to hear.

The truth may be out there. But that doesn’t mean anyone wants to know it. Such as. The truth. It. Can be. Very. Uncomfortable. And often inconvenient.

And there’s not a man among you who can stop me. Johnny Beeflardseed. That’s my name.

Pizza is death.