Some modest resolutions for the coming year.
I'm not going to spend near as much time in 2010 sexting.
I'm not going to take any crap off the Antichrist if he shows up around here in 2010.
If Texas secedes in 2010 and somebody's holding their leg begging them not to go, it won't be me.
In the past I've let the cat win one of our tic-tac-toe games occasionally just to keep him interested, but in 2010 he's going to have to earn every one of those victories.
It's just about wore me out the past couple of years, so in 2010 I'm not going to rotate my tires every time I have a flat.
I'm not going to run for the Blanche Lincoln Senate seat. Afraid I might win.
I'm not going to take on the Devil in any fiddling contest. Pretty sure he'd win.
I'm not going to get into a reproductive competition with any Duggars. No question who'd win that.
I'm not buying any more of that old swamp woman's love potion made out of the ground-up ivorybill peckerwood beaks.
I'll not engage with Sen. Pryor in any discussion of religious profundities.
I'll try to avoid interjections that include the word forsooth.
I'll also no longer emcee the festivities at the annual Edgar Buchanan birthday celebration on March 20. One of the other glitterati will just have to step up.
Sunny Somalia won't be on the 2010 Assmunch travel itinerary.
I'll try to stay vigilant against comfortable reliance on received authority.
Like Rep. Ross, I'll stand foursquare against the wanton extermination of oldtimers.
I'll not rent out the barn for any more hoedowns.
I'll not nudge-nudge wink-wink any of the literalists on my pew whenever the congregation launches into one of the old spinster-quilled hymns that sublimates libidinous longings into “spiritual” ones.
I'll not pay to look behind on-line content walls. Especially those behind which there's said to be a notorious over-representation of trolls, frumps, crazies, and boy-martyr idolators.
I'll no longer tempt fate at railroad crossings.
I'll not be spiking my tresses. As if I had enough to.
I'll not farm naked on moonlit summer nights, as is our Peerless Leader's custom. Just don't trust those Garden Weasels.
Because there's enough clutter out there already, I'll not apply to the secretary of state for a permit to erect my own seasonal display at the State Capitol — either an interactive with Goya's monsters of church and state astride us peasant donkeys, or a grouping in which our homegrown Magi (Madison, Hamilton, and Jay) sit explaining fundamental principles of republican government to the ass-eared Arkansas Legislative Council.
I won't try to drive across large stretches of moving water during flash floods.
I'll not remind any traffic officer who pulls me over that he or she needs to remember who pays his or her salary. Or if I do, I'll try to remember to mutter it inaudibly.
I'll spend exactly as much time skinning out deer as I did this year.
I'll not wallow in nostalgia, though I might repair a little more often to that uncloudy day in 1949 when the world was sweet, all was well, and not a single existential question or peer pressure nagged.
If it comes up on “Jeopardy!” again, I won't guess again that agoraphobia is a fear of goats.
I won't be taking my gun to church. Even if the legislature says I can. If a legal deer crashes in through a strained-glass window, runs loose through the apse and chancel, and bursts out the vestibule and dances away gloating, I guess I'll just have to grin and bear it.
Before I mention the mote in your eye, I'll make sure the beam is gone from mine.
I'll try to remember that the ones who are really angry or really scared aren't the loud ones.
I'll try to remember that you can end an argument with a gun but you can't win an argument with one.
I'll try to refrain from using this space to give advice to North Korea. Even if it's good advice. Even if nothing else much is going on.
I'm not going to lose sleep worrying about the prospective lesbian takeover of state budgeting.
I'm not going to adorn my person, my vehicles, or my correspondence with Biblical citations that might be construed as giving support or encouragement to certain sicko advocates of presidential assassination.
I'll refrain from participation in the 2010 American Idol vote, and not necessarily for the reason you might think.
If the 2010 weather is anything like 2009's, I won't be putting out cacti.
I'll not tweet, my momma having taught me it's impolite, beans or no beans.
I'll not again go spelunking in the Medicare D doughnut hole.
I'll not be buying lottery tickets enough to finance more than two or three dozen college scholarships. Unless they're like vo-tech. Or barber college
I'll carry this thought around with me: that all that there is is what is remembered.
Bob Lancaster, one of the Arkansas Times longest and most valued contributors, retired from writing his column last week. We’ll miss his his contributions mightily. Look out, in the weeks to come, for a look back at some of his greatest hits. In the meantime, here's a good place to start.
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