So long, 2010. Hello 2011. Many moons ago, a wise old sage told me that as the years pass, they go faster. He was right. I know 365 days are 365 days and they all take 24 hours to pass, but the less sand we have in our hourglass, the faster it seems to flow.
2010 brought changes to the Moonbat Cave. Most notably, we have a baby moonbat now. He joined us December 26. Hell's bells, I haven't quite adjusted to being 45 and now I have a grandchild on top of it! I've found my footing and my voice in many areas, notably politics and religion. Outside a brief, fleeting time in my early teenage years, I've never particularly given a fuck about fitting in, and as I get older, I give even less of a fuck. The baby moonbat has reminded me of the importance of not only marching to my own drum, but also making sure that others know it's alright to march to their own drum. Certainly, if my own little moonbats learned nothing else from me, they learned to be their own person - in the words of Shakespeare: To thine own self be true. Just as I had to find my own footing, so too will my children and their children. I can only hope that the footing they find is truly their own, and not someone else's.
2011 has loads of potential. All years start out with loads of potential. It's up to us to make the best of it. I guess that's probably my most philosophical resolution. Of course, there's the perpetual diet and exercise and better money management resolutions, but those are forever on everyone's list. Oh, yeah, the organic garden and all of that crap, too. Some of my better resolutions involve not giving Sarahcuda Wasilla Hillbilly Palin as much ink as I have. This one's going to be hard. It's like telling a tornado to avoid a trailer park. She's just such a fuckwit that it's almost impossible to not acknowledge her by roasting her. I also resolve to get my automatic windows on my car fixed just so I can roll down the windows and shout obscenities at tea baggers and religious zealots when they have their various pickets and protests at the State Capitol Building. I will bark at them like a good Moonbat should. I resolve that should Fred Phelps and his band of inbreeds dare to visit Central Arkansas, I will do the folks in Oklahoma one better and go Carrie Underwood on their hickmobiles. I resolve that I will pay more attention to my blog. I resolve that we WILL go to Galveston this year and I will jog (or at least powerwalk) the entire length of the sea wall. Finally, I resolve to do Tai Chi while drinking Chai Tea. Top that!
On to the good stuff, the stuff you've been waiting for - the fundy dead pool. Of course Billy Graham tops the list. That old fucker is always on the list, mainly because he WON'T DIE! If I believed in "the devil," I'd believe ol' Billy made a pact with him to live forever. Seriously, when is the old bastard going to croak? Get the fuck gone, already. Next on the list is Jack Chick - he of the
shit Chick Tract fame. Yet another old vulture that refuses to scavenge elsewhere. Chick almost makes me wish skydaddy and hell were real just so Chick could get pimpslapped into hell for the sin of being a fundamentalist fucktard. I'd laugh my ass off if Pat Robertson died in natural disaster, being as he's so fond of calling natural disasters skydaddy's punishment on sinners. My good friend Dromedary Hump, aka The Atheist Camel, has predicted Pat's demise
here. The final name on my 2011 Fundy Dead Pool is Fred Phelps. I'd really like to see someone turn a funeral procession into a drive-by and take out ol' Fred and all of his inbreeds. Short of that, I'd like to see the old bastard get AIDS. I think he's a bit too hung up on gay people, if you know what I mean. Ted Haggard syndrome, maybe? I know this list might be too easy - they're all older than dirt and probably have one foot in the grave anyway, so I'll throw a youngster in just for the hell of it. Kirk Cameron. He's young and in good health, but what the hell?
Well, there you have it, gentle reader. Reflections, resolutions and the 2011 Fundy dead pool.
