1. Thanks to rampant commercialism and television violence the three are pretty much the same holiday anyway and,
2. I spend altogether too much time trolling Craigslist for anonymous sex with fat black women.
That being said, I personally make it a practice to spend the days after January 1st reflecting on the past year, the year to come, and how best to deal with my varying drug addictions.
2007 was a marvel—a riotous, multi-faceted calamity that tore itself out of 2006’s still-heaving bosom and lurched confidently into our lives, like some sort of terrible metaphor that has gone on in far too much detail. As the great Oscar Wilde once said, “It ain’t easy being white,” and his words could not be more apropos today. 2007 was a year full of extremes—extreme meltdowns, extreme political turmoil, and extreme Mountain Dew Game Fuel. It wasn’t necessarily any one event that defined this year, but more like a parade of unlikely situations and crises that become more and more unbelievable as time went on.
There was a little something for everybody. For the politically-minded, 2007 will be remembered as the year that brought former Attorney General Alberto Gonzales and senator Larry Craig to their knees, in what may be the easiest joke to make about soliciting sex in an airport bathroom stall ever. 2007 was also a linchpin year for many of our nation’s celebrities, with big names like Katie Holmes, Britney Spears, and Lindsey Lohan doing their damndest to make sure I respect women as little as Gaudio does. Rich and trendy college students everywhere fought, polo mallets and plaid shorts in hand, for the chance to hold Steve Jobs’ balls in their mouth and pay extravagant prices for the privilege of doing so, and yeah, the iPhone was born.
Carlos Mencia’s career rose and fell, taking with it any faith I had in America’s television-watching public and demonstrating the depth of Comedy Central’s commitment to provide quality programming to its dwindling audience. “Don’t tase me, bro!” was adopted as a viciously ironic anthem by indignant and disillusioned college students everywhere, after an Internet video was leaked depicting the horrifying truth of the First Amendment: tasers are fucking awesome. Also, if you go to UF, you probably scream like a little girl.
2007 was also a year of sadness and death. Anna Nicole Smith died, proving at long last that the secret to living forever does not lie in being fat and having a show on E! (sorry Tara Reid). Chris Benoit of WWE fame killed his family and then hung himself, in what can only be described as the saddest thing to happen to a 40-year-old chronic steroid abuser other than a WWE career. Kurt Vonnegut, Evil Knievel, and even the fucking woman who played Lily Munster on The Munsters died. I don’t even have a joke for that. That’s just sad.
2007 was a shitshow, a debacle, and I loved every goddamn second of it.
The point of reflection pieces like these is often some half-assed, pussy sentimentalism, like a Hallmark card with a butterfly blowing a kitten on the outside, and the words, “Oh well, life goes on!” on the inside. And I’m all for interspecies blowjobs, but come on, 2007 wouldn’t have wanted it that way.
2007 was the metaphorical equivalent of getting fucked up, having wild, irresponsible, unprotected sex with a Thai ladyboy hooker, and waking up the next morning with no recollection of what happened and your pubic hair shaved into the shape of the continental U.S. 2007 was about a disintegrating exit strategy for a war no one wants to be in. It was about the Internet bleeding over into every mass media out there, resulting in, if possible, the Internet becoming an even more inhospitable place for rich, white presidential hopefuls than it was before. It was about impossible changes, huge technological leaps, and the answer to the previously unasked question, “Does MySpace whore Tila Tequila prefer dick or a butch firefighter who looks like all three of the Hanson brothers combined into one person?” I’ll give you a hint: no one was singing “Mmmbop” on the season finale.
2007 was a fucked up year and it needs an appropriately fucked up send-off. And I can’t think of anything more appropriate than posthumously awarding
Chris Benoit the National Father’s Day Council “Father of the Year” belt.
Jesus, even I think that’s fucked up.
