With 2012 preparing to rear its shiny, confetti-sprinkled head before us, no doubt the usual list of New Year’s resolutions has been written by the well-intentioned masses. (Good for them, best wishes, God bless, blah blah blah.) I’m not the resolution type I used to be. One reason for this is I find it far easier to lose weight in the summer, and the calendar-makers keep refusing my request to make June the first month of the year (jerks). Also, long ago my idealism and ambition disappeared in a fashion that would impress the pants off D.B Cooper.
However, I still have enough festive zeal left in me to want to somehow signify the changing of the year, and I found a great approach that replaces the desire to improve oneself. It is the even bigger desire for others to suffer: New Year’s Curses.
My curses for 2012:
May your son’s insanely expensive acting classes be taught by Adam Sandler.
May the custom Corvette you won in a radio contest be formerly owned by Barbie.
May the only surgeon available for your emergency appendectomy have a bad case of the shakes from caffeine withdrawal.
May the entire pool of job applicants for your new branch office consist of community college hold-backs and people fired from the DMV.
May your hearing aid pick up a heated argument between Roseanne Barr and Fran Drescher while you’re battling a migraine.
May a recently-deceased distant relative leave you her entire estate, which consists of 60 cats and one litterbox.
May you develop an allergy to all your favorite foods, and learn your immune system is bolstered by your least-favorite foods.
May your high school girlfriend show up at your 10-year reunion looking like Barney Frank with shingles.
May you discover carpet burns on your wife’s backside 6 weeks after you install hardwood floors throughout your house.
May your TV set’s warranty lapse exactly one minute before getting stuck on the Botched Nose-Job Channel.
May a massive sinkhole open up in front of your driveway the moment you learn your teenage daughter is attending a kegger at her history teacher’s house.
Finally, happy New Year to those of you who manage to dodge any of the above.
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