So another year’s almost over, and I’ve been staring at a blank screen for hours, trying to figure out what to say about it. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s nothing I can say that hasn’t already been said, so I’m going to run with that. I’ve decided to summarize all of 2007 by making this, the last N’sider I’ll write this yea, a collection of one sentence from each of the other N’siders I wrote this year, in order. Not surprisingly, it makes about as much sense as anything else I’ve ever written. See you in 2008!

——

Natalie Ramsey, The-Seth loves you. I gotta go see how many Emmys I can fit down my pants. But before I do, let me remind you that it’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and there’s some stuff you should think about. Does trying to evaluate one’s emoness somehow betray everything about being emo?

Now then, a more appropriate question is whose fault is it that a dead fictional character has more friends than me? I’d come up with a more creative way to insult them than “bozos,” but they’re seriously not worth the effort. Because someone who does drugs has the possibility of quitting and getting cleaned up, but someone who has a butt for a mouth is always going to have a butt for a mouth.

It’s Presidents Day, and I have the day off to worship the presidents or to mousse my hair like our foxiest pres, Franklin Pierce or to do whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing, so I’ve only got one thing for yinz, but it’s good: To really piss somebody off, build a wall around their piece so that they can’t do anything with it. Suzie, Sonya, and Tiffany caught pantsless and in matching outfits, on the set I guess? I’m going to go crumple into a pile of goo now.

I took photos of celebrity bowling pins and ate their leftover jalapeno poppers. Or one bag of flaming crap from that dog on Gilmore Girls. Did you feel the world just get a little pongier? If you’re your grandmother, DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK1 and think about shirtless Richard Chamberlain instead. I would be crying as I type this, but luckily I’m a robot, so I can’t feel sadness, but I can always get work calibrating mass spectrometers.

If you’re having trouble making a choice, consider sequestering a jury of your hamsters or something, because it only gets harder from here. We understand that it brings to mind barfing, and not everybody likes to think about barfing. Tommy broods, purses his lips, eats toast.

With any luck, this will only be the greatest day of your life to date and there will be some better ones from here on out, but don’t blame me if this is as good as it gets. Because I figure a monkey butt would not be a place under which it would be safe to park the Playstation 3. It gave me nightmares of millions of the-n.commers floating around legless, pelting me with chewed bubble gum that burned my flesh, while demanding I dish out creds to fill their huge, lifeless eyes. But at least while you’re waiting for our inevitable squirrel-induced extinction, at least you can get married by a robot.

BTW, more of you would rather be the President of Crapylvania than the Sidekick to Captain Buttpinch. Wait, WTH? I hope I am not the gateway to a parallel universe through which giant killer robots are going to pour and go to war. My! Oh my! *fanning face with stiffly outstretched hand* I am ovahcome with tha vapahs! *swooning into the arms of mustachioed suitor* Lawd! I thought I would have more to fill out this paragraph, but it’s just that simple. Someone does something stupid.

I’m voting for Becky to win Star Stylist. Having cast your vote, you might assume that your democratic duties are done forever or at least until the next time you have to pick a prothonotary or chancellor of the exchequer. The hope being that you and yours will sing along so loudly that your voices will permeate the landscape and all the metaphorical Mannies of the world will release the metaphorical hair of the metaphorical Darcies and they’ll all join hands (washing the scalp chunks out from under their nails first) and raise their voices together singing “What I know is that I’m soooooory / What I know is that I suuuuuuck….” Which I’m now realizing might not make any sense out of context, but there ya go.

But enough about one’s armpits! You’re DETERMINING THE FUTURE EVOLUTIONARY PATH OF THE ENTIRE SPECIES! Lucky for you, lately the federal government has strongly emphasized core reading and math skills while neglecting barf painting. Apparently they had expected that I send them a courier-delivered, notarized communiqué written by dipping a bone from St. Hilda of Whitby into a vat of my own blood and then scrawling onto the skin of a unicorn. I actually witnessed three of our executive vice presidents frolicking, followed by scampering, followed by gamboling, followed by a short break to fire six people, and then topping it off with a five-minute cavort. Nothing gets people motivated like unfortunateness (unfortunatality?). Oh well, I think I’m still short-listed for the economics prize, especially since I collected all 50 US State quarters and the buffalo nickel where you can see its wang.

Here are some things I found interesting: Paragraphs are for chumps. To be honest, I don’t know if we even showed the episode of Dawson’s Creek when Jen dies. If someone could win a Pulitzer Prize for being me, I would totally win it. Because of the above, Thanksgiving can only ever fall from November 22 to November 28. Every time someone sees Manny’s boobs, an angel gets its wings.

It’s an optical illusion created by cosmic rays reflecting off the background radiation from the Big Bang and too much egg nog.

–The-Seth

1. Note: whatever this originally linked to is long defunct. [↩]