The old year is ending, the new year is beginning, and this is how I’ve decided to mark the occasion. A penis joke. Yes, yes, my maturity knows no bounds. Let’s all either 1.) Party or 2.) Lay around the house all night and do absolutely nothing until the stroke of midnight.

Merry Christmas, everyone! (You can ignore that salutation if you don’t celebrate Christmas, or if you are offended by the word “Christmas” and prefer the word “Xmas,” or if you don’t like either word because one is clearly religious while the other is clearly pornographic, or if you just hate holidays in general.)

I just want to go on record as saying the following: Christmas dinner should not be Thanksgiving dinner’s doppelganger. Shake things up a bit. My family, for example, has a spaghetti and lasagna feast. My neighbors roast a bear. A close friend of mine cooks up a big ol’ swarm of bees. And Winslow hollows out a turkey and makes his world famous clown stuffing, complete with rubber noses, balloons, tiny pies, and, somewhere toward the end of the meal, a car filled with several dozen more clowns.

Missing socks are a fact of life in my house, and when I’m not blaming cats or faeries or the tiny 18th century Spaniard that lives in my foyer closet, I suspect many of the socks sneak off in the dead of night to have torrid affairs with one another. This also explains the amount of baby socks I find around the house that I can’t recall either of my children ever wearing. This is sock biology at its finest.

Not only is he thugged out, he’s thugged out 80s style! Word.