Resolved to make no resolutions

I’m just too flippin’ logical to make New Year resolutions. What’s the use? Making a New Year resolution is not going to stop me from giving the finger to another driver when they honk at me from behind at a four-way stop while I’m checking out my nose hairs in the mirror. Or, will a New Year resolution stop me from thinking bad thoughts, the 50,000 Hail Mary’s, and 100,000 Our Father’s kind of bad thoughts, when the horse’s asses over at Pelham Town Hall are making idiotic and incompetent decisions with my tax money?

And, oh, ya, here’s the biggie. Hold onto your touques. I’ve been rerunning this one for the last 40 years — I’m going to lose weight, 100 lbs., in the new year.

For crying out loud, Possums! Someone threw a tub of Helluv-a-Good-Chip Dip at my head and it knocked some sense into me.

Here’s the thing. If I’m not asking 240-Gordie, my husband, “Does my butt look fat in this?” I don’t give a flying flip anymore! Or, maybe I’ve realized there’s no downsize to my upsized butt. It’s my own fluffy personal booster seat when I pull up a stool to the bar over at Iggy’s. So mark my words, cross my heart, hope to die, never tell another lie, poke a stick in my eye — these Pamcita Marie Robbinsky lips are not going to be flapping and spurting out liar-liar-pants on-fire Trumpster promises in 2017…I guess I should add a na-na-na-boo-boo, just to cement my point.

Pam “Pamcita” Robb