My New Year’s Resolution is to gain 200 pounds. No, I’m not dangerously thin, and no, I don’t want to gain 200 pounds of pure muscle. I want to gain 200 pounds of pure, unfiltered waste — the equivalent of 700,000 calories in brownies, snickerdoodles, cupcakes, fudge pops, mountain dew, mars bars, M&Ms, margarine sandwiches, and guacamole milkshakes.
There’s no particular rhyme or reason to my resolution; it will probably take 10 years off of my life and inflict disgust onto any women/men I meet, both in the process of gaining the weight and after having put it on.
Not me. This year, I’m setting out to accomplish something so devoid of purpose and requisite effort that there’s no way I won’t accomplish it. How great will it feel to ring in 2011 from the comfort of a motorized scooter, knowing that only a year earlier I set out a lofty goal that I have now met? It’ll feel great. And I’ll wash that great feeling down with a mouth full of liquefied caramel, take a hit off of my oxygen tank, and set the next year’s resolution: to re-gain my virginity.