I wonder how I’ll do this year. It’s 2026, just a couple days into it. My New Year’s Resolutions are still sporting the “WET PAINT” sign. Looking back, I haven’t had the best of luck with this antithetical roadblocks of Change Your Life & Be A Better Person. Example?

When a person turns 21, they’re supposed to drop the giggles and embrace, albeit reluctantly, this wet blanket annoyance entitled, “Adulthood.” My New Year’s Resolution in 1971 was to stand atop my sofa, in my gym shorts, and see if I could jump into my Levi’s before I hit the ground. Yes. I had been drinking and, do relax. I moved the coffee table out of the way. As I look at my watch, I’m 75 now, approaching middle age. I have trouble climbing into my jeans with the help of two fetching stewardesses, each soothingly encouraging, “There-there.” Not even if they were giant and roomy clown pants could I imagine today standing on divan’s highest elevation, launching myself into space and somehow getting both feet through the leg holes before I hit the ground.

Perhaps I need a taller sofa.

You know what other New Year’s Resolutions I’ve abjectly failed at over the decades? Listening. I’ve often vowed to be a better listener, although, in retrospect, why is that always brandished about as such a good quality? Unless someone is announcing, “Your burger is now ready, Mr. Boston,” or, “FIRE!” what good does listening to other people bring? It’s just a clock eater.

Weight loss is usually up there in the goal of the fresh unveiling of the January calendar page. Of course, I rarely share this in confession, but I seem to be a devout follower of Satan. He suggests, “Doughnut?” and, without fight, argument and with an alarming amount of easy-going moral turpitude, I shrug and say, “Sure.” Worse? I bite into the doughnut. I chew. I swallow. I eat the doughnut and perhaps might have another. I’m an award-winning writer and novelist. I am somewhat of an expert of the published word. I have never come across any book entitled, “The 30-Day Danish Doughnut Diet” or “Lard Is My Mouth’s Best Friend!”

Do you see the cross-purpose at work here? Losing weight? Doughnuts? Adding complexity to the issue is my constant companion, Satan, who sometimes helps out by suggesting, “Have you ever considered saving time by placing the doughnut — inside — a double cheeseburger?” The guy doesn’t even have to twitch his big, red tail, twirl his mustache or cackle, “… mwa ha ha ha ha …”

A quality I flirt with the first few minutes of every New Year is compassion. For many years, I’ve vowed to be nice, polite, understanding and considerate to Democrats.

Excuse me. Had to stop writing this column for a couple days and visit the hospital. Hurt myself laughing.

Looking back, I’ve missed more than a few opportunities at self-improvement. Still can’t play the guitar or piano. Well. Better than your ordinary, street corner orangutan. Since I’ve been a kid, I’ve wanted to become adept at knife throwing and that’s not to say I’m not. I can throw knives. Often, they mostly don’t stick into anything.

Starting in high school, I promised myself I’d become a multi-millionaire. I can’t help but notice, starting back in the 1970s, that Bank of America sends me my monthly statement in the form of one of those gag cards. You open it up and there’s one of those tinny laugh tracks. I mean, I’m still working on that first million. Well. First $20 bill, actually. I don’t think BofA has the right to have representatives call me at 3 in the morning, whisper, “… shame on you,” then hang up.

I don’t want this to sound like I’m whining, because, after much focus and hard work, I have actually had many of my New Year’s Resolutions come true. For years, I’ve started out the New Year vowing to make it through December plague-free. Knock on wood and hope I’m not tempting any leftover Dark Ages gremlins, but I’ve yet to catch the plague. That has to count for something. Not counting that nice illegal alien tattooed circus lady and Whatzername The Screamer From Rehab, I’ve gone months without making if not dubious, then fatal marriage choices. In fact, whenever I bump into someone on a date, my first question is, “Using only fingers and toes, how many children do you have?” Haven’t bought an Italian race car as my daily driver in the longest time.

This just struck me. New Year’s Resolutions are a lot like Lent. Well. Lent if you’re a practicing Catholic. Lent really doesn’t resonate with a Druid or if you’re some barbarian Pic, does it? But a good New Year’s resolution usually involves you giving up something. Like that wonderful, entertaining pastime of surrendering to your baser self. Or, smoking cigars. Or, eating yummy processed sugar. Or, bathing. Or, obeying annoying traffic suggestions, like signs that read, “Bridge Is Out.” Who is the government to tell me what to do? Perhaps the bridge ISN’T out. Has government ever tried looking on the bright side of things for a change?

Perhaps there’s hope.

It’s already Jan. 2, 2026. I have yet to wedge a chocolate doughnut inside a Quarter-Pounder Dripping With Cheese & WD40. But, then. As I type and ponder, it’s only 7 in the morning. I could always just fall back on the ancient ritual of the partial selling of my soul. With the shallow justification of, “What could it hurt?” I could hop in the truck and visit McBox in the Taco. I’ll just order the diet version, with only the frosting squished inside the burger. I’ll be health sensible and ask for it with the WD30.

Less calories …

“Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” is on sale at JohnBoston-Books.com. So are other fine books, including his two-part SCV MONSTERS series. Boston, a lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards, is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.

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