Everyone has spangly, sparkly plans for New Years Eve.
My children are no exception.
They are looking forward to staying up late, eating junk, drinking fake champagne at midnight.
But more than all that?
The Annual Division of The Swear Jar.
All year long, every time I say a bad word, 50 cents goes in. If either of them says anything I feel is exceptionally objectionable , 25 cents comes out. Needless to say, they make money on this deal.
So as we divide up the lucre, I’d like to say thanks to everyone who made this year’s swear jar fill up.
Thanks to the woman on the way home from work who couldn’t merge to save her fucking life. Thanks to the goddamn idiots at TD Bank. Thanks to the shitheaded grocery clerk who put the eggs at the bottom of the bag. Thanks to the cocksucking zipper that wouldn’t go all the way up.
But really, most of the thanks goes to my kids. Who I should try not swear around. And without whom, I wouldn’t swear nearly so much.
Happy New Year, everybody!