High Res

Last New Year's, I resolved to not make any resolutions. I decided the most prudent thing I could do was to refuse to cop to a single flaw. It was a fun year, y'all. A year of chronic masturbation, bad eating habits, sloth, avoidant behavior and public intoxication (the "Drinking Beer From a Garbage Can" incident marked the zenith of this trend). At the same time, I did manage to join a church and a gym, both Good Choices, as William Miller's mother would say. But I hadn't resolved to do those things. I just did 'em, so it doesn't count.

(Lest you find me too virtuous, I'm eating Butterfinger Minis for breakfast right now. At 11:15. And fondly massaging my thigh cellulite--it's like nature's Play-Doh and it's temptingly adjacent to my Fun Factory. Did I mention I'm naked and I haven't showered? And that I didn't take off my makeup last night, so I look like a greasy-haired coatimundi with pierced teats? ALL THIS AND BAD CREDIT, BOYS! Line up!)

So this year, I'm going to actually make some resolutions...

1. Start eating more things that grow in the ground. Hallucinogens don't count.

2. Wake up earlier and use the time to exercise or yogacize or whatever it is Enlightened Women do these days to Empower Themselves and Fight Osteoporosis.

3. Ingest more Omega 3 Fatty Acids. I don't know what those are, but I've theorized that Douchepacker is a good source. His fur is so shiny and his hindquarters look delicious.

4. Get a dog that doesn't die right away.

5. Strike up mutually beneficial friendship with CJ.

6. Buy one of them pussy sprays that'll make my hot gypsy snatch smell like purty azaleas.

7. BUY HOME STRIPPER POLE.

8. Stop killing manatees with the outboard motor on my totally bitchin' boat, Foam Fucker II.

9. Learn to unhinge my jaw like a python so your cock will go deep enough to tickle my ribs. This sex act is called "ribbing" and it's all the rage in Pattaya.

10. Equip Foam Fucker II with proper lifevests. I can't have more stupid toddlers dying on my watch. Also, restock the minibar.