First, I wrote this about the New Year. You should read it.

———–

So. That Meme. It kinda sucked. I know that. You know that. The guy down the block who doesn’t even know what Meme means knows that.

I’m sorta embarrassed I didn’t do this in the first place.

And to all of you who are type A enough to want to do one again? I’m sorry. Genuinely.

But here’s the Meme I wish I’d answered.

1) What does Meme mean?

I think it’s an ancient Latin term for “most annoying, self-centered survey on the planet.” Which is shockingly similar to the term “Aunt Becky.”

2) 2011 – Was it all you’d hoped it would be?

It was the year that WAS. I’m anxious (also frightened) to ring in 2012.

3) Did you watch the Royal Wedding?

Nope. I’m not into weddings. Although the hats, man, the hats were killer.

4) Where are your pants?

Pants are fucking bullshit.

5) Is Justin Bieber human or some sort of robot?

I’m altogether certain that Justin Bieber is a robot created from a hostile world to teach our tweens how to drive their parents absolutely bonkers.

6) If you had only one thing to wish for this coming year, what would it be?

I’ve thought a lot about resolutions (I’m thirty-fucking-one this year. I should fucking resolve something?) and I’ve come to this conclusion: I will resolve to not become Lil Wayne this year.

7) Would you call yourself a “social media maven?”

Those three words together are sorta like saying, “she has a good personality.” They’re a cleverly disguised insult.

8 ) If you had to take three things to a desert island (let’s assume you have ample food and water), what would they be?

Uncrustables.

Uncrustables.

John C. Mayer

Uncrustables.

9) If you had the ability to banish certain offenses to an island where they would be rehabilitated into being okay again, what would those offenses be?

“ALot” versus “A Lot.”

“Loose” instead of “Lose.”

Being John. C Mayer.

Using any corporate buzz words in a non-ironic way. See also: “action plan,” “deliverables,” “proactive,” “engaged.”

10) How do YOU think the air conditioner works?

Gnomes fanning large blocks of ice with over-sized ornamental fans.

11) Do you ACTUALLY think you can make money blogging?

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*wipes eyes*

I PAY to blog.

12) There’s a lot of talk in the blog world about microblogging (The Tumblr, The Twitter, The Facebook) taking over traditional blogs. Do you think that’s the case?

Nah, I think that those who were on the fence about traditional blogging or preferred some other medium (i.e. pictures) have gone to the microblogging platforms. I think those of us stubborn enough to stick around will be here until they pry our keyboards from our cold, dead hands.

13) If you could give one piece of advice to your younger self, what would it be?

There’s always a way. Find it. Keep finding it. Nothing turns out how you thought it would – so just roll with it, Baby.

P.S. You’re not a redhead. Quit trying to be one.

14) If you could’ve told yourself this time last year one thing, what would it be?

Billy Mays death will leave a gaping hole. Don’t try to fill it with the imprisoned ShamWow guy.

15) If you could have one Super Power, what would it be?

I’d be Aunt Becky, Maker of Coffee. I’d be able to make coffee without causing small fires.

16) If you could do one thing you can’t currently do, and do it well, what would it be?

I’d be an opera singer. No, seriously. I’ve been known to sheer paint off walls with my awesomely awful voice.

17) What surprises you about yourself?

I remain shocked that I have ditched my nursing degree, popped out two more crotch parasites and started to live my life on the Internet. Also: the whole non-profit thing seems weird to me.

18) What was your favorite blog post/tweet of the past year?

“Look out below, motherfuckers!” – The Twitter.

19) Do you REALLY think “Purple Should Be A Flavor?”

I hear there is purple vodka. I think this is probably the single best thing ever (altho I’ve not tried it, which seems like a motherfucking sin.)

20) If you could make one outlandish wish for 2012, what would it be?

I’d go to Vegas, be married by a creepy drive-thru Elvis, and spend the next several months in the desert, recreating Fear and Loathing.

Alternately, I’d go on a fucking epic road trip with a friend or five.

—————–

Once you Type A people out there complete this, go ahead and linkage on up! I even put up a widget. WINNING!

I’m a big fan of Christmas. If I could find one of those Number One fingers and write “FOR CHRISTMAS,” on it, I would. THAT is how much I love Christmas.

Sure, it’s going to be weird this year. Got some familial drama that I cannot (apparently) speak of here, that’s got me a wee bit nervous, but I push on through.

I still get all misty-eyed when I see decorations up, and there’s frankly nothing like a good version of “Blue Christmas” to get me solidly in the mood for some festive motherfucking cheer.

You think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.

I’m old now. I may get tearful whenever my Christmas tree is turned on (bear in mind it’s been up since LAST Christmas, which reminds me of that awful Wham! song, which is NOT something that makes Baby Jesus OR Your Aunt Becky smile), and I may wrap each present happily, open each Christmas card guiltily, but you know what?

I can never think of anything I want for Christmas.

Now I know what you’re saying, “Aunt Becky, Christmas – and Trix – are for kids. You don’t need any presents.”

And, o! Pranksters, my Pranksters, you would, indeed be correct. It’s a lean Christmas here at Casa de la Vodka, but the kids, well, they still have a butt-ton of small gifts to open. According to The Twitter, whom I trust implicitly, kids under ten prefer a fuck-ton of small things rather than one big present. So I have a ridiculous amount of tiny PlayDoh things to wrap.

Anyway.

When I’m asked, “Hey, what do you want for Christmas?” my mind goes blank. Don’t mistake me, I’m not one of those people who are all *waves hands dismissively* “Oh, give my gift to charity,” because, well, I like presents. A lot.

Problem is, I never know what the fuckballs I want. When asked, that is. It’s like my mind, normally filled with pictures of ponies and/or unicorns on roller skates, immediately empties and I’m stuck muttering the first few things that come out:

“Barbie Dream House.”

“Ball pit.”

“Shark pit.”

“Shark on Roller Skates.”

And the asker is left quizzically scratching his or her befuddled head, wondering if I have, at last, gone off my rocker.

Since I already HAVE a pony on Roller Skates:

I no longer need one.

Nor do I need anything else that I can think of on command. I tried, the other day, to create an Amazon wish-list. All the cool bloggers are doing it, so I figured THAT would be a great place to point family members to buy gifts for me.

Ha.

I have two things on it.

Two.

Things.

Apparently, I suck at life AND picking out gifts for myself.

But this morning, the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. A good friend, who shall remain nameless because, well, I do not have a proper email address or name to thank this wonderful friend, sent me something. Something so incredible that I may never stop weeping with joy.

Something I want, nay NEED, for Christmas.

Behold, my Pranksters, and share in my joy.

If you think the 3-Wolf Moon PJ’s aren’t awesome enough, just read the description:

Pranksters! I can take a SHIT while wearing these glorious rags! These PJ’s come with a SHIT DOOR!

Frankly, I do not think that, once I own these, I will ever, EVER need to own another item of clothing in my life.

So WHAT if I find adult footie pajamas to be creepy? So what if I cannot imagine sleeping with cuffs around my feet again? I CAN TAKE A SHIT WHILE WEARING THEM.

THOSE ARE EPIC FUCKING PAJAMAS.

And *shakes fist at sky dramatically* they WILL BE MINE.

I’m kinda feeling low today. I’m hoping to snap the fuck out of it and come back and actually string words together, instead of posting one of the creepiest videos ever.

Also: Other, Better Shit I’ve Written (a.k.a. I Get Around):

10 Ways To (Not) Entertain Your Kid On An Airplane. I have a feeling the comments will be troll-worthy.

7 of the Most Baffling Products Aimed At Parents

Holly Daze

And a repost of an old favorite: When “He’s My Dad” Makes Everyone Feel Awkward

I wrote this on Band Back Together.

Please read it.

I love you all, my Pranksters.

I get a handful of those address labels throughout the year. Not ones that I order or anything, but the ones that various charities send to me to elicit me to send them cash. (if I ordered them, they’d probably have anatomical parts or the three wolf moon on them or something)

They’re usually corny things, ladybugs and smiling faces and shit. So normally, I toss them into the recycling bin, knowing I don’t exactly want to say that my name is “Mrs. David Harks” or anything. Because believe it or not, when I got married, I KEPT A NAME OF MY OWN.

Anyway. Not a huge fan of those charitable stickers.

Don’t get me wrong – I donate to a couple of charities religiously: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and March of Dimes (soon enough Band Back Together!), but I don’t have the fundage to donate to every stinking thing that wants my cash.

Yeah, I’m looking at you, Jimmy Motherfucking Wales.

That’s why, when the Sarah McLaughlin “Angel” song pipes up on one of those ASPCA commercials, I have to turn the channel before I start throwing wads of cash at the television screen. I mean, could they GET any more tear-jerking? I think not.

(dramatic foreshadowing) Rather, I THOUGHT not.

So quickly, I change the channel and pretend that I’m not weeping into my Diet Coke. Because Lord knows, I cannot afford to pay off yet ANOTHER person to prevent them from telling the world that I do, in fact, have feelings.

But last night, I saw that I got yet ANOTHER set of address labels. Addressed to me: Ms. Becky S. Harks. Finally, my ACTUAL name. I could USE those for the Christmas Cards I’ll forget to send!

“No,” Ben and Daver both chimed as I opened it. “YOU DON’T NEED TO SEND THEM MONIES.”

My resolve strong, I was all, “I’m too GOOD for charitable tactics. I can TOTALLY use these stickers WITHOUT forking over wads of cash. I CAN FUCKING DO IT. EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER!”

And then I saw it. The letter.

Yeah.

You got my formerly sick kid’s NAME on top of your letterhead. Nice job. Now I HAVE to give you money.

Jesus, could you stick the knife in any deeper?

“Guys,” I said, tears pouring, “I have to send them mah monies.”

“NO,” they said, almost in unison. “Becky, c’mon!”

“LOOK.” I thrust the paper into Ben’s hand. Immediately, his face crumpled, his eyes just a little moist (he clearly never paid me off to tell the world he doesn’t have feelers).

Then I handed it to Daver, whose face did a similar crumple.

“Okay,” they agreed. “You do.”

It looks like you’ve won this round, St. Judes.

Jimmy Motherfucking Wales? You can blow me. Hard. In fact, I sorta wanna to pull a John C. Mayer on you now. WATCH OUT JIMMY FUCKING WALES. I’M ON TO YOU.

When you stop laughing, let me know.

P.S. Confused? Go here.

Jimmy Fucking Wales.

O! Pranksters my Pranksters, how I love thee.

Also: I love this:

The MakerBot Thing-O-Matic. This may be the only thing I want for Christmas. For my birthday. For Bastille Day. For EVERY day.

There’s nothing not awesome about something that can replicate ANYTHING I WANT IT TO. It’s like we’re living in the future!

I, like many of you, was a Mold-A-Rama addict as a child. It didn’t matter WHAT that wee plastic thing was going to shape into, if I could have it, I WANTED it. Nay, I NEEDED it.

Of course, that was until I got home and realized what a worthless piece of plastic it was. Really, no one needs a plastic-scented rhino.

Not even me.

However, I’m feeling particularly plucky today and have decided that it is time for you (yes you) to NEED something too. Especially one of my shirts.

So, it’s time for a giveaway.

It’s time for YOU to own one of mah shirts.

To enter, you must leave a comment saying what you’d make with your MakerBot Thing-O-Matic. The more hilarious, the better.

For additional entries (separate comments for each of the entries, y’all), you can:

1) Tweet about mah blog.

2) Become my FB BFF. (alternately, if you are already following me on The Facebook, mention mah blog there).

3) Follow my blog publicly on Google Friend Connect.

4) Submit something to Band Back Together or Mushroom Printing.

5) Leave another comment with a shirt idear.

There is nothing not absolutely awe-inspiring about this. Especially since it MAGICALLY appeared in my iPhoto library. I think it’s a sign.

Is the best part that she’s named Cornfed? Or that he’s a white dude named Bill Cosby (WHO IS VERY CLEARLY NOT THE REAL BILL COSBY)?

No.

It’s her response.

P.S. The current front-runner for most inappropriately named porno is “Hairy Pooter.”

P.P.S. Outdo me. I dare you.

Daily flash mobs would be mandatory. Preferably in front of my house. Why? Because who can be gloomy when THIS is happening?

Instead of being powered by gasoline or electricity or flux capacitors, cars will be run entirely on music by Prince.

When the recyclables gather in a large enough pile, they will simply band together like a Transformer and walk their way to the recycling plant.

Childbearing will make the female body MORE youthful and beautiful, rather than causing breasts to look like two oranges in tube socks.

Coffee will be the national beverage and mandatory for anyone over the age of seven.

Life on the Internet will no longer be measured in numbers (see also: Klout) but upon hilarity of cat videos.

Split pea soup will be banned because, well, obviously no one should eat something that appears to have been shot out of my baby’s pooper.

Babies will be born sleeping through the night, doing complex geometric equations, and ready to go to work to buy their parents diamonds.

Pants will remain entirely optional, even in polite company.

There will be no “polite company.”

People who use the words “organic,” “sustainable,” and/or “nosh” in the same paragraph will be banned to the ALOT Island along with anyone who substitutes ellipses for periods.

Moon Pies will ACTUALLY be made of bits of the moon.

Detergents that don’t include OxyClean will be banned. The legacy of Billy Motherfucking Mays must live!

Steve Irwin coined the “stupid people antagonizing wild animals” television shows. Which got him dead. Which means that no one should repeat the formula.

For the love of all that is holy, no more reality singing competitions. American Idol was the clear winner and it’s gone the way of the condor. Or whatever we’re calling Paula Abdul these days.

——————-

Dish, Pranksters. What else should we add? Because when I rule the Universe, you’re all co-rulers.