Time has waded knee deep into that big hot tub known as the Gregorian Calendar, and is sinking its knees in deeper and deeper, too cool for words and too hot and cozy to pull itself up and out. And even if it did, what would become of the bath robe?
No, we’ve all turned the pages of the year, filled with luscious lubed up babies leaning across Dodge Chargers or cute scenes of butterflies landing on a kitten’s fart and their like, to arrive at this, the designated official time of partying like their ain’t no gull darned reason what for the partyin’ tomorrow.
And I, for one, will be standing at the precipice of insanity, bellowing haybails of freedom into the combine of time, so that come morning I can hold my head high and proclaim to the world “Yes, January, door to the newest year, I too am wearing pants.”
Up Next: Commandments, Ten