Thank you for joining me in my primal scream, er, 2020. I’m speechless, you know, in that primal scream sort of way. It’s clear communication like that that keeps you coming back for more, huh?
I’m grateful beyond all measure for all the editing, the fact checking, the calling me out when I’m wrong; oh, wait. I’m not grateful for that, but I am indebted to you for making the ol’ Thunderbolt Grease-slapper the home of the internet’s incorrigible spitballers ™. The internet self-sorts, and I couldn’t be happier that we all ended up as comrades-in-arms.
2020 has been a year of highs and lows: we impeached the motherfucker, we voted the motherfucker out of office, and we have (so far) survived a pandemic that the motherfucker made worse. I cannot believe that we made it through the 2020 shartnado and in only a few weeks our long, national nightmare will be over, you know, unless the Republicans are successful in overthrowing the gubmint to install Lord Damp Nut on the throne. (See what I did there?)
But tonight, as we remain socially distanced, please know that I hold you close in my heart.
And so, from the tip of my nose to the bottoms of my toes, I thank you for another memorable year. I will toast to our good health tonight, and to our comrades-in-arms no longer with us, gone to spitball in the great beyond, or offline. I know, I know, I’m doing it again, but it really is the perfect song for us, Scissorheads:
If you’re with me /
Next year will be /
The perfect year