I was reviewing The Silver Foxes’ year with you: You confirmed that “Cuddle Buddies” exist, which seems somewhat pointless, so we didn’t pursue it. We also learned that it is a major faux pas to wash a toilet seat in the dishwasher. We also took a ride down memory lane you in September. We made it out of 2018 with no major issues or maladies and flew into 2019 with the optimism of Mike Tyson’s early opponents — before they got knocked the f*ck out. What do you predict for us this coming year? Will we be pretty? Will we be rich?
— Doris Day Sort of a year
My dear boys:
Happy collective 700th birthday! I predict that your asses will flap in the winter breeze like Keith Richards’ nutsack and your beautiful souls will shine on like rare red diamonds.
I predict that 2019 will be saved by inner beauty. It has to. (I say, trembling and quivering.) Last year took us out to the shed, tied us to a rusty tailpipe and beat us with bags of grapefruits. Then we woke up (still drunk) in 2019 and sang “Que Será, Será”
Fantz and the Foxes did have a good year. I resolve to convince you boys to turn the 6 a.m. breakfast invitations into more like 5 p.m. happy hour invitations.
But not everybody had a good year. With all the “fuck 2018” cries on twitterbookstasnap, that year was ridden harder than Champion, the quarter-powered horse at Casa Bonita. This past calendar year was a real cyst on the crotch for a whole rash of people. Except for maybe Post Malone. (He just ordered sushi from Japan.)
I know I’ve had better years. Aside from personal/family drama strong enough to knock the escort out of Trump’s Bugatti, my home was robbed last month.
Tangent: Dear Class 4 Felony Theif, I hope a clydesdale inseminates you and you birth Blucifer out of your dickhole. End tangent. (The DIA demon horse, layhomies.)
So yes, 2019 looks brighter than a shiny piece of shit. Let’s be optimistic and look forward to shinier pastures, where LoveSacs dot the fields like goose shit, where it rains boxed wine, where it lightning-bolts orgasms, where the softest puppies curl up on our feet for socks …
LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. Jesus Christ, SNOOZE.
Cuss. Gah, ugh. NO. (Please pause for quiet sobbing.)
Get up. Deep breath. Lipstick on a smile. Swallow your Zoloft and drink your dinner. Schedule an Uber Snuggles cuddle buddy.
In this new year, we still can’t control mean people or The Donald’s reign of vomit. But we can let our inner beauty shine. Even if it feels like our intestines are in a blender and we can’t stop throwing up panic attacks, let’s grab 2019 by the bushy tail, swing it around like a lasso, snare up those villains and show them what it feels like to cry.
But first, we get stoned. Chill out, we’re only five days in.