It’s New Year’s Eve. As a 30-year-old parent, I’m well past the days of buying a $100 wristband for some bar, waiting in lines 9-deep for a beer and then convincing myself I’m having fun. It’s a quiet night in the BDD household. I’ll drink a nice toast to the awesome power of my penis, have a Lindt truffle, offer sex to the Mrs., fail, and then call it a night. But I do know the rest of the gang has some pretty wild stuff planned.
Unsilent plans on drinking some fancy wine from his parents’ cellar and then listening to a hip hop record he’s convinced himself he likes.
Punter plans on fucking a donkey while wearing a Darth Vader mask and videotaping it.
Ape will be writing a post about the Steelers.
flubby will be maintaining his candlelight vigil for Al Davis’ official death.
Caveman will be trying to nail a Becky by busting out some of his fanciest Marine jargon (example: “You pretty. I want make vagina cry.”)
And Falco will continue to slowly decay at the bottom of the East River.
As for the rest of you, as you go out into the neverending promise of the night, I’m here to make two important public service announcements:
1) My email address has changed. If you want to send an email for Reader Mail Bukkake, or if you’d like to tell me I’m a big fag, send it to firstname.lastname@example.org.
2) You will probably be attending a party or two this evening. Perhaps you will even be hosting one. If they have artichoke dip wherever you’re going, bomb the place to the ground. Artichoke dip is fucking disgusting and should be banned. It has three things in it:
Okay, only one of those things is good. And it’s ruined by the other two. You mayalready know my stance on mayo. Mayo makes any food taste British. Guhhhhhh. And artichokes are the go-to vegetable for people who don’t like eating.
Avoid this horrid shit. And if you’re serving it tonight, a pox on your Ikea-decorated apartment. I hate artichoke dip.