Columns » Bob Lancaster

Resolutions, ’08

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I think I might try my hand this year at being an aphorist. I don't know though; I like the honey but I'm allergic to the stings.

I've heard that there are sunrises in Arkansas that are every bit as beautiful as the sunsets. I'm going to check that out this year, and will let you know.

I might not get there fustest with the mostest this year, but I'll get along when I can with whatever I've got left.

I never have used performance-enhancing drugs to help me write better, harder-hitting columns, and I won't start this year.

I won't be preaching to the choir this year, or to anybody else.

If you see an “actually” or a “basically” in this space this year, I'll expect an upbraid, or at least a reproof.

I'd like to vow to make my peace this year with this sorry century, but I just don't think it'll agree to meet me halfway.

If I'm in Seat A or B, and C shows signs of drug-resistant TB or ebola, I'll show GWB just how fast it's possible to devise an exit strategy.

If I go on the wagon this election year, it won't be a bandwagon.

If I make a good catch or tackle, I'll not do a lot of on-field imbecile showboating about it, as so many of them do now.

I'm determined this year to conquer my addiction to placebos.

I authored the strategy of betting greyhounds based on the relative exuberance of their tail-wagging in the post parade, but I've enjoyed about as much of that as I can afford.

It might be time in 2008 to abandon my long-held belief that I can reform bad drivers — that is, all other drivers of automobiles besides myself — if I curse them with sufficient fervor, volume, and regularity.

The political process has become so tiresome that we all must resolve not to abandon it in disgust to the hyenas ganged on its flank.

If in 2008 I buy any toys that were made in China, or anything that was painted in China, I'll gladly submit to having my head examined.

No ordinary bling for ol' moi this year. Life's too short.

I guess the time has come to mark pole vaulting off the Bucket List.

Newspaper columnists often mistake the onset of senility for a breakthrough into wisdom, which they're eager to share while it lasts. My experience has been different. I knew it all at the start, and now I'm down to hunches and vague clues. So here's the resolution: If I decide this year that through epiphany or sedimentation I have unaccountably happened upon some priceless nugget of cosmic lore, some bright coin of existential understanding, I'll be sure to keep the sumbitch to myself.

I won't be waterboarding any enemies that I've managed to subdue this year, not even bound Satan if it comes to that.

The big chandelier in the Western Sizz at Benton is made out of dozens of sets of deer antlers. It's impressive in a way, but I'm resolved in 2008 to go in a much different direction insofar as my indoor-lighting esthetic.

As to '08 home entertaining at the Lancasters', there won't be any A list. Or any trot-line bait calling itself a foreign name for appetizer.

I'm bent from the cares and woe of long experience, and so out of shape that the term no longer has any meaning, but on the recommendation of my spiritual advisor, who is given to platitudes, I'll do my best this year to avoid “getting bent out of shape.”

Because what goes around comes around, I'll not gloat.

I'll try to remember that evolution isn't the least bit interested whether I believe in it or not.

If they think they're going to move the Gillett Coon Supper here to my back yard and patio, and broil the honorees on my little propane grill, they've got another think coming.

If some argumentative condescending type says to me this year “You do the math,” what I'll reply is, “No, whoremonger, you're the one that brought it up, you do the math.”

Who was the bathtub dude eternally searching for an honest man? My long search has been for a televangelist who is not two out of three of idiot, scoundrel, or perv, and I will keep looking this year, only because somebody has to.

All right, sometime in 2008 I'll jump the shark.

A child in my family who's not yet 2 years old already knows more about operating electronic devices than I ever will. But if I apply myself, by the end of the year I might catch up to where he is now, and I herewith vow to try to do that. At least I might learn, five years after I got the bastard, which doohickey to push to answer the stupid cell.

After this one, I won't be writing any more columns with the Wii, which flings the words at a computer screen where they splatter into random combinations, like cans of paint flung at a canvas by an abstract expressionist. Sometimes the splatters run to a kind of sense. More often, as you might gather from the above, they clot into gibberish, like something a chimp would write or that Wally Hall would phone in.

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