It's come and gone. The celebration of New Year's 2021.
I wasn't out in some sordid back-alley, super-spreader event. Once again, I was holed up in my sleeping bag, cell-phone flashlight in my hand reading a knarled copy of The Police Gazette Annual Edition, 1985. I nodded off and when I opened my eyes, it was 2021.
It's so awesome that it's now 2021. Thank God, in all her glory, that the memory of 2020 is receding faster than the South end of Seabiscuit running North at Santa Anita.
We ain't out of the woods just yet but the light at the end of the 3rd Street Tunnel is finally in sight. (That's in L.A. for those reading this from behind bars.) That light is the maelstrom of vaccines that are pouring in from the drug companies. Vaccines to die for, so to speak.
I'm ready, willing and Uber ready to get a healing shot in the arm. It'll be nice to have a new healing drug in my system. It gets old when your only drug of choice is a steady stream of Kaopectate.
A New Year has dawned and my goal is quite simple: A needy Trophy-wife girlfriend. An adventurous lady with an insatiable libido and longing for a Threesome: Her. Me. And her American Express Card.
It's the New Year with the promise of Spring. The promise of new movie roles. The promise of meeting new personalities, many of whom will be early-release felons that share my twisted sense of humor, and have robust and still-active connections with the Cartels. The promise of expunging those unflattering court records in L.A. County. The promise of becoming a great Argentine Tango dance-lead and learning some new moves for 2021. The promise of ordering those always-on-sale wife-beater T-shirts on Amazon.
I want to soar the heights. I want to be all I can be. I want to...
Well, maybe not.
But, enough about me...
