So here we are maybe, what, 32 hours into it, and some of your New Year's resolutions are shot already. Nice goin'. So start over Mogambo.
Many of us aim too high with our resolutions. It's important, leading experts tell us, as do many trailing experts, to set realistic goals. Here are some learned behaviors that have proven most achievable for consideration on your hurriedly revised list of things to do in 2002:
Take up smoking. Drink heavily. Try crack. Drive faster. Talk louder. Watch more TV. Buy a gun. Gain weight. Sleep even less. Adopt a one-eyed pit bull. Frequent a "nuisance bar". Stop deleting porn from e-mail. Call a talk show.
Heckle joggers. Get a vanity plate. Attend garage sales and yell, "A dollar? Are you nuts?!" Call the Pittsburgh Catholic and tell them that unless they start running more pictures of Bishop Donald Wuerl, you're not buying it anymore. Curse at them for telling you it's free.
Eat lunch in the truck with the engine running. Order the WWF pay-per-view. Get a frame for that Rush Limbaugh portrait. Make up leering "pet names" for female colleagues. Suck up to the bosses. Play to win at the blame game. Call in sick at least once a month.
Take up golf and make sure everybody knows it. Develop a terrifically annoying laugh. Order inexpensive wine, then send it back. Insist on separate checks. Whip out your cell phone and bark, "Lopez, you bastard!" Look waitresses squarely in the breasts. Interrupt male servers after they say, "Hi, I'm Jason" and say, "Yes, and you'll be annoying the crap out of us, right?" Laugh that terrifically annoying laugh.
Complain more often about Heinz Field. Complain about the Rooneys. Complain about McClatchy. Complain about Murphy. Complain about Roddey. Stop reading altogether. Rekindle that long-burning hatred of New York. Hate Philadelphia and Cleveland more. Hate it, hate it, hate it that jockeys get to dress that way but that if you tried it, oh boy would you hear about it.
Tell strangers on the subway that Regis Philbin is underrated. Hum a folk song incessantly, something like "Oh! Susanna." Start conversations in the middle, maybe by saying something like "down 10 at the half." Start at least one conversation a week with "I still ain't sure Kordell's the answer."
Mention polyps a lot, even when you don't have them, and especially during meal time. Get a radar detector. Tell people that you'll soon be securing a counterfeit handicapped parking permit. Spit in a cup. Show others slick brochures touting your golf vacation.
Consider body piercing. Yes, there. Add three tattoos. Get a hairpiece and carry it in your pocket. Wear profane sayings on your clothing. Go nowhere without a baseball cap worn at an angle that suggests it was placed on your head by a baboon. Line up extra hats along the back shelf of your vehicle. Overplay jewelry.
Purchase a bumper sticker that reduces a profoundly complex social issue to five words. Consider voting. But not for long. Polish that little speech about how the federal government has no real right to tax anybody. Get red-faced about foreign aid. Find out when Earth Day is and use the word "enviropussy" in at least five conversations that day. Mow the lawn every day.
Report every episode of diarrhea immediately to the nearest human, no matter the setting, and give details. Make it your personal policy never to attend a wake without wearing your XFL gear, particularly the Hitmen sweatshirt. Admit it, you thought al-Qaida was the general manager of the Toronto Maple Leafs.
Arrange to have the one-eyed pit bull cloned. Wear an eye patch. Don't be afraid to flash a little butt crack now and again. Check out adultery. Spread an Internet rumor about Sept. 11. Break wind aggressively and speculate openly on the source of your gas.
Buy a set of fog lamps for the SUV and never turn them off. Tell people you're a former Navy SEAL. Carry a harmonica in your shirt pocket. Challenge people to spell "ukulele." Point out the planet Venus in the night sky, like you know.
Get blood from your cuticles. Find a religion that forbids the trimming of nasal hair. Hoard fireworks. Criticize youth sports officials at a ludicrous volume and show no mercy. Scream at 6-year-old soccer players who are "just not getting it done!" The boys too. And, again this year, be nice.
Gene Collier's e-mail address is gcollier@post-gazette.com
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