A glass of spoo for the new year
Conjunctivated on December 28, 2025.
Hop! Skip! Jump! Disjunctivate! Farnaculate! Rejuvenate!
Christmas came and went with only a mild concussion and thirty-seven stitches. In years past, it’s been worse. This time, it wasn’t an angry Becasue—angry because I gave her the gift of bubble wrap again. Nor was it an angry Canada goose—because I gave the goose the gift of a cavatappi phallus again. It was far simpler: On Christmas, I hid in a hole in the ground. It’s nigh impossible to become concussed or need stitches when one hides in a hole all day long like I did.
Then I hopped, skipped, and jumped my way to a farnaculous rejuvenation ritual. That was good. Yeah. Good. Fun. Howling. Horning. Hopping. Holpering. Hurfning.
A new year begins in a few days. This one is called “Twenty Twenty-Six.” I wish whoever keeps naming these years came up with more original names. But there you have it: Twenty Twenty-Six.
I stepped from the shadows, donned my cape and wizard hat (actually a fez), and went vroom! until I was told in no uncertain terms to stop, lest I be committed to the nut house on Macadamia Street. I stopped. Then I started again—furtively. The men and women with the butterfly nets caught me doing it, then caught me in their butterfly nets, then I was put in a straightjacket and violated with a pair of tongs until I promised not to do it again.
Then I did it again. Hop, hop! Hoppy new year!