‘Tis the season. The old year slowly wanes and gives way to the new. Which is a darned good thing, given what twenty sixteen had up its shifty sleeve.
With the new year comes an opportunity to appraise and refocus for the political season ahead. We at Hildo central have made some binding resolutions to make for a refreshed and wholesome column, with all the stuff and none of the fluff, just the substance you love about our ruthless rants.
Here are our New Year’s Resolutions,
in no particular order.
Lose some weight. We’ve gotten soft and flabby, and it’s time to shed some excess poundage. Remember that this will be a year of municipal elections. But as long as Carty promises to stay off the ballot, we promise to keep him off our word processor. Gone will be any reference to Finklestinky. The same goes for Mikey P. Bellbottoms. We resolve to forget his latent Trumpsterism, and never mention him again, if he promises to stay out of the political fray. Heck, he’s now a triple play short end of the stick candidate. That should teach him something.
You know what? We assume Opal will be back in the Mayoral game, but we don’t even care. Lampooning her is too easy, so ferget her. We gots bigger, better fish to fry. And fry ‘em we will. We’re looking at you, Wade, Paula HH, Sandy Spang, and anyone else silly enough to want the hot seat on the twenty-second floor.
Get more exercise. In place of our old standbys like Stinky Finklestein, Opal the self-proclaimed Prophetess, and Mikey P., we resolve to broaden our scope. We need to exercise our sarcastic wit in new directions. We haven’t spanked the TPS Skool Bored nearly enough, and we’ve virtually ignored the electeds out in the ‘burbs. With the exception of the odd shenanigans out in Spencer Township, or course.
Anyway, get ready, all you Bob Vasquezes of the local political world, we need to get on the ol’ treadmill and give you a run for your money. Frankly, Bob, you could use a few runs on the treadmill yer own bad self.
Cut down on the caffeine. Some-times we get a bit fired up. Sometimes this sends our column into true off-the-rails train wreck mode. Usually this makes for an incendiary good read. But sometimes we go overboard with the caustic bite. Mebbe it’s the double espressos we inhale before we put fingers to keyboard. Or perhaps it’s the simple fact that politics in the Great Froggy Bottom Swamp is just plain bat guano loopy. Whatever. We resolve to cut down on the sulfuric acid and keep to the red hot skewer action. We’ll drink less caffeine, but smoke the chuckleheads that much more. It’s so much tastier that way.
Don’t worry. Be happy. Our friends say we worry too much. They say we get too wrapped up in the deep tracks of inside City Politics and can’t find our way out. We should stop worrying and learn to love the crazy.
What they miss is that it’s exposing the crazy to the harsh light of satire that assuages our worry and makes us deeply happy. This resolution will be the easiest of all to keep. We won’t worry– about the feelings of the powers dat be. And we’ll be happy– to send their outsize egos far up the river of shame. We won’t worry– about the sycophants and apologists for the status quo. And we’ll be happy–to poke the bear in the weepy eye with our little slings and arrows of opinionated fury. Resolve this. Electeds, corporate heads, and other T-Town power play wannabes, we’re coming for ya all over again in twenty seventeen.
That’s a resolution you can take to the bank. The others? Make ours a double latte, pass us the Farty Stinkfinger, buckle yer seat belt and keep hands and feet inside the car at all times.
Twenty Seventeen should prove to be a helluva ride.