New Year’s Time Travel Machine aka The Last Long Winded Post of 2008

Here we are, folks.  Another year coming to a close.  How was your 2008?  Mine was filled with wonderful highs (two of which you’ve heard all about…Et Al, the wonder twins) and craptacular lows (none of which have seen nor will see the light of blogday…repression is a mastered art of mine).

I want to take today to recall some of the more memorable New Year’s of New Years’ past.  I am the Ghost of New Year’s Past.  Wooooooo. (did i just butcher the sh!t out of some apostrophes there?  look away, grammar buffs and editors, look away from the apostrophe carnage)

The New Year of Rocks and Little Debbie®

As a kid, my neighbor and I concocted what we thought was the perfect New Year’s celebration.  We gathered enough change to buy a box of Little Debbie® oatmeal pies.  Next, we rounded up a pile of large, heavy rocks (large rocks do tend to fall on the heavy side, eh?).  Lastly, we each donned a baseball cap as protection (from what? you ask.  you’ll see).

We decided that year and every year thereafter we would meet on the corner of 8th and Grand just before the ringing of the New Year.  At the very second one year passed into the next, we would shove our mouths full of oatmeal pies, toss the rocks as high as we could up into the air, and yell HAPPY NEW YEAR! through our snack-cake packed maws.

The baseball caps were to protect our noggins from the rainshower of boulders.

We never met on the corner again after that year.

I, obviously, needed more hobbies in my life.

The New Year of the Pube

(This New Year’s celebration ranked up there as my favorite until I later ventured into Tennessean New Years.)

As an undergrad in college, my best friend of many years and I found ourselves in a house filled with Spanish speaking strangers for New Year’s.  We had hitched a ride with a classmate from one of my Spanish classes, having no idea where we were going.  Only that we were going to habla some español this New Year’s Eve.

I figure we boozed it up a bit in my dorm before leaving for the party.  I’ve already confessed my unfair bartending tactics  in which I get the other person sloshed off their butt while I’m still sober enough to witness their demise.  I can’t remember how much and where alcohol was consumed.  But, I know the consumption was paramount.

My friend and I kept to ourselves at the party, not knowing the other party-goers nor being gutsy enough to habla the español.  The night was closing in on New Year’s ringing when my friend sheepishly announced to me, “I think I need to puke.”  Alrighty, then.  See, she’s one of those puke and resume festivities sorts.  So, off we go to the bathroom.

Just as we hear the chanting

CINCO…CUATRO…TRES…DOS…UNO!!!,

blearkhulghackhughbluuh…uh.

I was holding back my friend’s hair as she puked in the New Year.

She cried and cried, “This year is going to SUCK!  Puking in the New Year has to be a bad omen!”

“No, no, no,” I assured her.  “You were puking out all the bad from the previous year, opening yourself up to all the good the New Year has to offer.”  (thank you, thank you)

“But, what about that big, black PUBE?”

I looked, and yes, there on the shiny white toilet eye-level with her pukefest rested a lone black pube.

“Ummm.  Ready for another drink?”

 

The New Year of Anal Grapes and Kitchen Table

Aha, a New Year’s celebration in which I know the exact year.  The New Year where everyone and their mother played Prince’s 1999 at exactly midnight.  (or repeated false starts as was the case where i happened to be…no one could agree on whose watch or television program to time the ringing of the new year)  We’re gonna party like it’s 1999.  Wait, wait.  Okay, now we’re gonna party like it’s…shit, no, not yet.  NOW, we’re gonna…  Now?  We’re…

If I were to party like it’s 1999 again, I’d be meeting some of the nicest people ever (aside from my beautiful babes a’blogging) and wondering what the hell to do with all those grapes.

I met up with Brutha Ministah and a group of his friends (all soooo nice…i still rant to people who have never met them, “oh, they are soooo nice”…maybe i’ll soon dedicate an entire post to our meeting because, people, they are soooo nice) in Nashville for a party at some music folks’ house.

Neatly displayed on a table behind us were rows upon rows of grape-filled cups.  As the time drew near to play the hell out of 1999, the hostess gave us each our own cup of grapes.  No one in our group had ever been handed a cup of grapes for New Year’s (we would have been more comfortable being handed a steamy bowl of black-eyed peas).  One guy jokingly said we were supposed to shove them up our butts for good luck.  Of course, we figured we were supposed to eat them orally, but we took the opportunity to act like 3rd graders the rest of the night, joking about making wine from our own butts.

We continued the party on the next night, meeting more of Brutha Ministah’s Tennessee posse including Mr. President.  (are you getting dizzy with all the monikers here?  sorry.  you all have your music man, BC, monkey, etc…it’s only fair   )  After a night of dancing and sitting on barstools (no butt wine this night), a group of 6 of us wound up sharing the floor space of a teensy apartment.  The two girls in the group were treated like the Queens we are and given the two loveseats (not even full-on couches…teensy loveseats).  The rest of the guys were refugees sharing the floor, positioning themselves so as not to have one’s face lined up with another one’s arse.

I spent the night shooing this Asian guy away from my stubbly legs.  He, being a lover of stubble, wisely positioned himself on the floorspace directly below me, being a carrier of leg stubble aplenty.  I didn’t make an announcement to the room about having stubbly legs.  Asian Lover of Stubble (ALoS) must have spied the prickly black leg hairs peaking out from my jeans earlier in the evening.  Out of nowhere, ALoS says to me,

“I love stubble,”

as he reaches his little hand up from the floor and strokes my stubbly leg.

“Ooh, please don’t do that.”

“But, I LOVE stubble.”

“But, I DON’T LOVE that.”

This went on for a while as I called for help from Mr. President who was sleeping underneath the kitchen table.  Yes, underneath the kitchen table.  We carried on our conversation well into the wee hours, either until one of us fell asleep or the stubbly leg molestation ceased.

Oh, but AL0S had more tricks up his sleeve.  I awoke at one point with him kissing either my cheek or forehead.  I don’t remember which, but I bet he had his hand on my stubbly leg.

 

The New Year of Gnome Kissing

I had so much fun (stubble aside) the prior year, I decided to journey back up to Tennessee again the next New Year.  It was 2000.  If the computers were going to uprise and kill us all, I’d bid my adieu in the land of the Tennessee Stud.

I met up again with Brutha Ministah and Mr. President for some B.B. King action on Beale Street in Memphis.  Long blue drinks were consumed as we awaited the New Year.  Such a long blue drink that when 2000 showed its face, I decided to lay a fat one on this short, squat man beside me who looked just like the Travelocity gnome.  Seriously, just like him.  Oh, I didn’t slip him the tongue or anything.  Just a peck on the forehead or cheek (why can i never remember if it was the forehead or cheek?).  But, he smiled and beamed and seemed very pleased with the outlook of his new year.

The New Year of Guys and Nipples

The Tennessee gang of guys decided to venture down to Middle Alabama the next year (or maybe the next next year, i forget) for New Year’s.  It was me and 4 guys for the evening.  Whew, that’s exhausting just to read,  huh?

We decided to hit a dance club with hopes that some of the guys would each find a nice, booty-shaking gal to groove them through the night.  Uhhh, twas not the case.  It was a marathon night of dancing for yours truly as I quite literally rotated the guys one by one on and off the dancefloor.  I’d dance a song or two with one.  Then, look over and see the other three standing there, bored off their keisters.  “Here.  Let’s give so-and-so a turn.”  Then, on to the next.  And, the next.  And, the next.  And, repeat.  Man, I love to dance, but I was wiped out after that night.

I will confess a horrible “quirk” I used to have.  I ahem ::shuffles feet:: was a nipple twister.  I’m tactile.  While leg stubble was not a love of mine, I did love me some nipple twisting.  Oh, not on the ladies.  I know how sensitive our nips can be.  No, no, no.  I twisted the guys’ nipples.  And, twist with all my might I did.

I spent this New Year’s twisting the everloving shit out of Mr. President’s brother’s nipples.  I’m not sure why I targeted him, but I abused that poor boy’s pepperonis.  How obnoxious was I?  Very, obviously.  I’m dancing, dancing, dancing.  I’m getting very tired, tired, tired.  Must! Twist! Some! Nipples! I heard his nipples were black, blue, and purple for weeks thereafter.  (this was the kick in the pants i needed to put an end to my nipple twisting ways…i still attend monthly Nipple Twisters Anonymous meetings)

So, there you have it, my friends.  Glorious New Years past.  Of course, I left out incriminating photos details here and there to protect the criminally insane innocent.  But, you get the gist of how things work around here.

Happy New Year, everybody!  Get out there and risk a concussion get up close and personal with a pube shove some grapes up your butt kiss a gnome twist some nipples have a good time.  I’ll be going to bed early with the kiddies this year.  See you in 2009.