All The Reasons I Am Not Attending Your New Year’s Party


You’re gonna make themed drinks. Like Honey Boo Boo Bellinis or Mitt Romney Mudslides, because that’s the sort of fun thing people do to commemorate the year that’s passed. But I’m not fun. I’m barely even people. The only theme I want my drink to have is: “Brown Liquor is Strong! Also, There’s Ice In It!” The problem with themed cocktails is after consuming them all night, you’re either drunker than you’ve ever been, or stone cold sober. Neither of which is really what you’re looking for. And they usually turn your mouth a strange color. If I stay home on my couch, none of that will happen. Unless napping and watching reruns of Restaurant Impossible has side effects I’m not aware of.

My cat refuses to wear the tuxedo I bought her for parties. And there’s nothing worse than being the guy at the party with the under-dressed cat.

I am exceptionally lazy.

The whole kissing at midnight business. The first 30 seconds of every new year are always its most tentative. The ball drops and happy couples confidently turn to one another and start smooching, leaving us single weirdos with a decision on our hands. Obviously we’ve had a contestant picked out for the “Who Am I Going to French at Midnight?!” Game Show Extravaganza for hours, but suddenly that feels a bit contrived. Mostly because they’re kissing someone else. So now what do we do? Are we kissing friends? Is that a thing now? And if I’ve been flirting with some girl all night, can I just go for it at 12, or is that presumptuous? What if she turns her head at the last second, and I start 2013 by kissing the chin of some weird girl named Danielle? That sounds like a bad omen.

You’ll Have Pigs in a Blanket. God, I love pigs in a blanket. So buttery, so crispy, so filled with delicious hot doggy goodness. And for some reason, no matter where you go, they always make a New Year’s Eve appearance. They’re like Ryan Seacrest, but with less artificial ingredients. (BOOM! Eat it, Seacrest!) The problem is, while pigs and I get along great, I am allergic to their beloved little blankies. So my night is kinda ruined. Unless for some reason you made gluten-free pigs in a blanket, which obviously you didn’t because you’re not a lunatic. But to have to look at those beauties all night without being able to touch them is impossible for me to bear. I am Denzel Washington in Flight, and P’s in B’s are my minibar. I’m sorry.

I don’t know any of the words to Auld Lang Syne. “Should old acquaintance be forgot,” I sing with glee….aaaaaand then I trail off into confused mumbling. When did the rest of you learn the words to this song? And what is about? Because the first line sounds awfully depressing. Why don’t we sing something we all know at 12 a.m. Like, say, “Can’t Touch This”? Or the theme song to the Golden Girls? Actually, if we can sing the Golden Girls theme I will go to every party you ever throw ever. Wait, did you just delete my number from your phone?! Hey, wait a second!

I kinda have the hots for your girlfriend. Sorry, hope that isn’t weird!

You’ll have those noisemaker thingies. You know those plastic noisemaker horns, with the crinkly paper that unfurls when you blow into them? Well, I love those things. And I’m the kinda guy who gets ahold of one and can’t put it down. I blow it over and over: at my friends, in the mirror, into the faces of complete strangers. And then the other party goers will walk up to you ask, “Who’s that guy who won’t stop blowing the noisemakers? And why is his cat so under-dresed?” So you see, it probably is best that I just stay home.

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