I was going to start this post by brain farting about all the fuckery that trickled on us this year, but the memory box in my head labeled 2011 has been erased by all of the breakfast wine, lunch wine, after lunch wine, dinner wine, before bedtime wine and during bedtime wine I’ve been guzzling in Italy this past week. The only thing I really remember right now from 2011 is the ethereal dandelion of my dreams, Duchess of Alba, dethroning that bland basic bitch Kate Middleton as the most beautiful bride of the year. And I also remember chewing on an entire glass bong after I found out that the IRS was auditing my ass. Oh, 2011, you punched me in the butt cunt and then you blew powdery beauty right in my face.
Whatever it is you do tonight, be safe about it. And by that I mean, don’t give your last name to your one night trick and if you’re going to get arrested, make sure the police drag you to a jail cell with WiFi. Because how can I start my day tomorrow without reading your emails where you curse me out for my tragic grammar and attach that picture of Prince Hot Ginge’s hard scepter that never gets old?
I’m spending my night the way all damn tourists in Venice spend theirs by going to that St. Mark’s Square shit. But I’m only going, because somebody told me that at midnight, you’re supposed to kiss everybody around you. At least that’s what they tell me and that’s the story I’m going to tell after I get punched in the tongue for making mouth love to every hot Italian piece with luscious hair I see. (Seriously, almost every Italian dude has a luscious mane that I just want to floss my ass with.) On that note….
Happy New Year! Here’s hoping that if the apocalypse eats all of us in 2012, it eats the Kardashians first so we know what it’s like to live in a Kuntrashian-free world even for just one second. I’ll DRANK (and burp) to that!