by Harry B. Sanderford
It was coming clear to God that his booze-fueled midnight resolution to quit smoking, drinking, lose weight, and keep a more watchful eye on his cholesterol and sodium may have exceeded his actual resolve. He knew he wasn't getting any younger but it was only 10:30am and already he was chomping two packs of Trident and calculating angles that might justify his taking a wee hair of the dog. It'd been a hell of a party and he was slowly piecing together certain cloudy events that might just require his passing out apologies when he bit down hard and finally, truly understood that verse in "Ole Dan Tucker" about Dan dying "with a toothache in his heel." Howling oaths unblessed, the normally benevolent deity spat out a filling along with the glob of sugarless gum and when he was finally finished taking his own name in vain, he smote four out of five dentists with nary a thought and upon a moment's reflection, smote that contrary fifth fucker just for good measure. Later he would reconsider this reaction and think it perhaps a bit severe but for now it felt like old times and it was good. Happy New Year, he thought to himself as he sparked a bluetip match to life with a thumbnail and set fire to his first cohiba of the new year.
Harry B. Sanderford, author of A Day at the Beach, is a Central Florida surfing cowboy who'd sooner spin yarns than mend fences.