I Resolve to Stop Making Resolutions

by Tommy George

Just before the start of each new year--about 11:40 PM each December 31st, filled with some spirit sufficient to resurrect my belief in the Tooth Fairy--I find myself in the ammonia-scented, empty corner of whatever riotous tavern I happen to be in, chin in one hand, stumpy pencil in the other, drawing up a list of impossible resolutions for the twelve months about to befall my besotted existence. These annual compendiums of wishful thinking are a habit hard to break, because of the items I include, I sometimes accomplish one or two, at least in part. For example, last year I resolved to start using the bathroom for nocturnal calls of nature (i.e., no more bed-wetting). I made it work for a full four months. The other occupants of our family bed--my wife, mother-in-law, and four children--stopped calling me a wretched pee-boy father figure during those pleasantly arid nights.  

Emblems from a Grimoire, circa 1300's: Magic is needed, not resolutions 

The year before, I resolved to find gainful employment--since I do, after all, hold two Master's degrees--and came close to making that tall order stick. Although I had forgotten whatever it was I failed to learn in college, I was shocked by the number of eager potential employers calling my next-door neighbor, whose phone I use in such undertakings. (I have a phone sitting in a closet somewhere that has never worked--something to do with giving the phone company money.) Still, I made appointments to interview for several high-profile executive positions and felt that they all went well, to a point. However, I was always passed over for petty reasons: I am too honest a man to tell employers the fairy tales they
long to hear. The truth is that I had no experience as a CEO, as an urban planner, or a zoo veterinarian. My experience as a coroner was limited to small pets and bugs in my garage as a boy--but I was good. So they passed on me without even giving me the chance to show them my stuff. 

One Human Resources administrator was unnecessarily rude, and terminated the interview after I tried to coax him into suspending the personal qualm he had about my chain-smoking in his office during our interview--smoking pot, I mean.

None of these were valid reasons for disqualification--they were expressions of personal inflexibility on their parts. Further, companies declared opposition to my planned after-hours use of their office space for running my crew of prostitutes. I assured them all they would get a cut; that the girls would also take care of the custodial services, gratis; and I might even have an income-generating spot on my staff for their chicken-head sisters and unemployed inlaws. They weren't using the space, just playing dog in the manger.

Need a job moonlighting? Call Tommy George at 248 206-9444

As my dear father told me when I was still young: on the matter of work, take what they will give you--and run like hell.  Under no circumstances, give it back. More realistic advice: say nice things to your auditors, and do not fire up your ciggies with any bill larger than a five.

I don't need any more resolutions to remind me whom I love, or who loves me--or what I should or should not do to make the uncaring world happy. Therefore, I will drop the subject until I keel over dead or win the lottery, and advise the go-getters among you simply to do your thing without too much self-criticism or unnatural resolve--before your happiness gets up and leaves.

All silliness aside, love one another and enjoy a healthy, safe 2019.

And one deadly serious vow for Tommy--not a resolution, but a vow before the Godesshead, Jesus, Mary, and maligned Lucifer--he shall no more engage in games of speculation, a/k/a gambling.