No more New Year’s resolution stories!
… That is to say, after I’m done with my New Year’s resolution story …
Dear friends, family and creditors,
With a New Year upon us, I hereby promise to finally send in my query to Scientific American in which I prove how yawning is also contagious in canines.
When prompted to respond “Yes” or “No” by a voice-recognition operator from Verizon, I will no longer respond with the words “orange julius” with the idea I can cause software somewhere in India to bubble up and liquefy.
When speaking to my mother on the phone I will no longer give her any reason to ask, “Wait, what are you doing? Are you typing? You’re typing aren’t you? Am I boring you?”
I will promise to finally launch my get-rich-quick campaign that came to me in my sleep like a hungry bear smelling Ring Dings. Yes, bumper stickers, T-shirts, maybe even a website – all based on my soon-to-be trademarked phrase “Let’s Go Ahead and Mess with Texas.”
I will cease and desist beginning most sentences with “If I were you … .” Instead, I will begin sentences with “Tragically, unlike me, you …”
I will finally e-mail my savings account number and words of sympathy to that nice Nigerian fellow whose village was destroyed and who has offered me 20 percent of his $21.3-million inheritance.
I will never again tie a helium balloon to the dog’s tail.
I will apologize to the dog.
When my wife asks me to replace her windshield wiper fluid, I will no longer cover my ears and say “Blah, blah, blah blah, blah! Can’t hear you!”
I’ll finally have two tiny, oval-shaped photographs of our child printed in order to replace the two generic photos of those two gorgeous children that came with that gold locket I gave my wife six years ago.
In the meantime, I will no longer angrily insist on the wrongheadedness of her choice of names for those two gorgeous generic children in her locket even though, clearly, they are “Stacy” and “Stuart,” not “Tessie” and “Clarentine.”
I will build that damn tree fort. You don’t think I will? Well, I will! In fact, it will have two floors! It will also include a rope bridge that will lead to a turret adorned with four hand-carved gargoyles that direct rainwater to a hand-dug cistern that will automatically produce fresh lemonade every six hours.
I will stop forcing friends to listen to my Mongolian throat singing CD, or to The Pogues, while standing over them saying “Am I right? I’m right, right? Awesome, right? Wait, don’t go. Hey, wait, you haven’t even heard ‘Turkish Song of the Damned.’ ”
I will never – ever – attempt to organize another “Bury the Hatchet Carroll Family Reunion.” (Will someone please call a doctor? There’s a hatchet in my head!)
When yet another house guest gives unsolicited advice regarding “resale value” of my home that I have no intention of selling I will smile and nod rather than lick my finger and rub their cheeks saying, “Hold on, you’ve got peanut butter or something on your face.”
When my boy asks me again about my childhood I will inform him how I was named “Best Listener in Church and, Thus, Receiver of Tasty Doughnuts Afterwards,” “Raddest Skateboarder Because He Eats Broccoli,” and “Most Likely to Be An Astronaut Because He Washes His Stinky Feet For Goodness Sakes.”
I will lift weights and become huge and be one of those huge guys who are also nice despite being so huge.
I will prove my sophistication by never again asking people if I can borrow their Droid for the weekend.
I will take long, lazy walks -- so long and lazy that I’ll take a car and drive to Miami Beach. Ba-dum-dum! Yeah, baby!
Humming Ein feste Burg ist unser Lego (A Mighty Fortress is Our Lego), I will travel to Lego World Headquarters in Enfield, Conn., and nail my thesis to their front door. My thesis will proclaim that freedom from God’s punishment of childhood boredom cannot be purchased. But, look, I can be practical. I’ll consider toeing the line with the Holy Lego Empire provided they agree to knock 70 percent off the cost of Star Wars Death Star. If they throw in a Jedi Striker, it’s a done deal. And maybe a Drilldozer. (Lego, if you’re listening, call me.)
I won’t skydive.
I will buy a professional sports franchise.
I will forget I know how to juggle.
When e-mailing good friends who have recently moved away, I will no longer limit my words to “You know what? The hell with you!” Maybe I’ll express my hope that their new town receives a financial windfall in the form of Superfund designation.
Dear friends, family and creditors,
With a New Year upon us, I hereby promise to finally send in my query to Scientific American in which I prove how yawning is also contagious in canines.
When prompted to respond “Yes” or “No” by a voice-recognition operator from Verizon, I will no longer respond with the words “orange julius” with the idea I can cause software somewhere in India to bubble up and liquefy.
When speaking to my mother on the phone I will no longer give her any reason to ask, “Wait, what are you doing? Are you typing? You’re typing aren’t you? Am I boring you?”
I will promise to finally launch my get-rich-quick campaign that came to me in my sleep like a hungry bear smelling Ring Dings. Yes, bumper stickers, T-shirts, maybe even a website – all based on my soon-to-be trademarked phrase “Let’s Go Ahead and Mess with Texas.”
I will cease and desist beginning most sentences with “If I were you … .” Instead, I will begin sentences with “Tragically, unlike me, you …”
I will finally e-mail my savings account number and words of sympathy to that nice Nigerian fellow whose village was destroyed and who has offered me 20 percent of his $21.3-million inheritance.
I will never again tie a helium balloon to the dog’s tail.
I will apologize to the dog.
When my wife asks me to replace her windshield wiper fluid, I will no longer cover my ears and say “Blah, blah, blah blah, blah! Can’t hear you!”
I’ll finally have two tiny, oval-shaped photographs of our child printed in order to replace the two generic photos of those two gorgeous children that came with that gold locket I gave my wife six years ago.
In the meantime, I will no longer angrily insist on the wrongheadedness of her choice of names for those two gorgeous generic children in her locket even though, clearly, they are “Stacy” and “Stuart,” not “Tessie” and “Clarentine.”
I will build that damn tree fort. You don’t think I will? Well, I will! In fact, it will have two floors! It will also include a rope bridge that will lead to a turret adorned with four hand-carved gargoyles that direct rainwater to a hand-dug cistern that will automatically produce fresh lemonade every six hours.
I will stop forcing friends to listen to my Mongolian throat singing CD, or to The Pogues, while standing over them saying “Am I right? I’m right, right? Awesome, right? Wait, don’t go. Hey, wait, you haven’t even heard ‘Turkish Song of the Damned.’ ”
I will never – ever – attempt to organize another “Bury the Hatchet Carroll Family Reunion.” (Will someone please call a doctor? There’s a hatchet in my head!)
When yet another house guest gives unsolicited advice regarding “resale value” of my home that I have no intention of selling I will smile and nod rather than lick my finger and rub their cheeks saying, “Hold on, you’ve got peanut butter or something on your face.”
When my boy asks me again about my childhood I will inform him how I was named “Best Listener in Church and, Thus, Receiver of Tasty Doughnuts Afterwards,” “Raddest Skateboarder Because He Eats Broccoli,” and “Most Likely to Be An Astronaut Because He Washes His Stinky Feet For Goodness Sakes.”
I will lift weights and become huge and be one of those huge guys who are also nice despite being so huge.
I will prove my sophistication by never again asking people if I can borrow their Droid for the weekend.
I will take long, lazy walks -- so long and lazy that I’ll take a car and drive to Miami Beach. Ba-dum-dum! Yeah, baby!
Humming Ein feste Burg ist unser Lego (A Mighty Fortress is Our Lego), I will travel to Lego World Headquarters in Enfield, Conn., and nail my thesis to their front door. My thesis will proclaim that freedom from God’s punishment of childhood boredom cannot be purchased. But, look, I can be practical. I’ll consider toeing the line with the Holy Lego Empire provided they agree to knock 70 percent off the cost of Star Wars Death Star. If they throw in a Jedi Striker, it’s a done deal. And maybe a Drilldozer. (Lego, if you’re listening, call me.)
I won’t skydive.
I will buy a professional sports franchise.
I will forget I know how to juggle.
When e-mailing good friends who have recently moved away, I will no longer limit my words to “You know what? The hell with you!” Maybe I’ll express my hope that their new town receives a financial windfall in the form of Superfund designation.
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