My peace mission to Syria was fraught with complications after my seeing-eye Pomeranian was seized at Customs for violating national thresholds of froufrou-ness. This was followed by further scurrying about and logistical recalibration after I realized I was not in Syria but Sarnia. Thanks a lot, Google Maps! And, come to think of it, why was Canada Customs hassling me in the first place? Apparently, I was more mixed up than I thought. Regardless, all was not lost, as I was able to attend Sarnia town council and deliver my peace plan – “It’s the Time-Out Chair for Everyone!” – and visit Sarnia Collegiate Institute and Technical School, the alma mater of James Doohan, Star Trek’s Mr. Scott. Beam me up satisfied!
While I ultimately did not win the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, critics agreed that there had never in the history of cinema been a sadder movie than Everybody Lives But All the Dogs Die.
There’s an old Himalayan saying: “When the mountain snows are as deep as the night sky, this is no time to be wearing Birkenstocks.” With that in mind, I set out on a quest to find meaning in my life, or at very least in the life of my co-worker Sally, who is spiritually damaged from investing too much hope in the possibility that “The Big Bang Theory” might become good again. While I did not find meaning in my life, I did find where that funny smell was coming from.
Ingested 40 kg of Cool Whip in an effort to stabilize the over-saturated whipped topping market in accordance to the economic principle of supply-and-dessert.
Who will ever forget where they were at 10:37 a.m., Wednesday, May 13, the moment the War on Man Buns began? I was having my kneecaps bronzed.
My much-publicized bare-knuckle boxing match against future prime minister Justin Trudeau (“The Falderal in Montreal”) was cut short after two rounds when Trudeau began racing around the ring, shouting, “My face! My glorious, beautiful face!” Which was fine, because violence is never the answer, especially if it’s against me.
Adrift in a lifeboat for 17 days after the Slovakian cheese freighter I was aboard ran into an iceborg (robotic frozen water is a real danger, people!), I was forced to rely on my wits and extensive pediatric training to survive. Nourished only by seaweed and rations of Baby Aspirins, I passed the time by plotting revenge on the defrocked priest who got me into this mess in the first place. (Damn you, Father Grakov, if you are not damned already!) Emaciated, weak and badly in need of a toothbrush, I finally ran aground off the shores of Fiji, although I was at first convinced it was Detroit. You know the rest.
My R&B single “Wag That Swag” (featuring hip hop sensation Pole-E-Oh) reached No. 27 on the Pacific Rim Top 40 Adult Hypoallergenic Dance Chart and spawned a brief (2.4 days) dance craze called “The Full-Contact Hustle.” It was a hit. Unfortunately, my follow-up, “Ain’t Discussin’ No Concussin’” did not chart.
I launched my line of power tools and equipment for women who used to be men but who can’t kick the little handyman inside: Trans-Action Tools. Unfortunately, my Kylie Jennerator resulted in a series of lawsuits and vicious online attacks that rendered my project financially unsuccessful and not much fun at all.
Gaaawwwwd, it’s only October? Really? Will this year never end!
The United Nations Climate Change Conference turned its back on my proposal to end global warming by eliminating single-serve coffee makers, floral-scented kitty litter and Taylor Swift.
The year ends with a relaxing of the shoulders that comes with the realization that we have become so hyper-responsive to the constant bombardment of stimuli that ultimately nothing can become truly memorable because it is so quickly replaced by the next thing, and that sometimes what we really need is to turn off the stream and be still with ourselves; also the realization that selfie sticks are actually kind of fun.