Now, I know what you’re thinking -“Hey, this isn’t that pregnant teen bondage site the bishop and I bookmarked…”  Well, okay, but besides that you’re thinking, “Paul, aren’t editorials supposed to be for or against a specific cause or issue?”  Fuck, no.  I’d rather write about my balls.  My big beefy balls.  And how I cover them in salsa every Friday night before I go out drinking just so I can yell repeatedly - “Hey, hot balls comin’ through!  Watch out, hot balls here!” 

This month I’m shamelessly promoting my Y2K party.  I say shamelessly because, hey, how much shame can a man have left after trick-or-treating the Massachusetts State Police barracks as “Man With Green Onions and Meatloaf On, But Not Entirely Covering, His Hairy, Hemorrhoid-laden Ass.”  Don’t feel too bad for me though, I did get a couple cases of Heineken from all those nice gay cops….

Hang on—gotta scratch my balls.  Oooooooooooooh yeah, much better….

Well, in another month we’ll have the Y2K thing.  Which is fine with me because I am fully Y2K compliant.  I shoved three Twinkies into my floppy drive and told it to tell the goddamned motherboard that if it even CONSIDERED crashing, I would use it to show DVDs of old Gallagher specials twenty-four hours a day until I saw pigs - fat, exploding-watermelon-colored pigs - flying like kamikaze pork products around Jerusalem.  “Melon Crazy” my white, Polish ass. 

So, on December 23^rd, I am going to throw my own very special party to celebrate the new millennium.  Yes, a year early.  Fuck off.  And, yes, I am celebrating the end of the year on December 23^rd.  If any of you college-educated, January 1^st fetish bastards have a problem with that, just remember—thanks to leap years and the annual mead intake of the average medieval scholar, using the Gregorian calendar as a means of calculating the passage of time is about as accurate as using my dick to measure the shoe sizes of “wee people.”

My Y2K-a-thon will begin with a round of the always-entertaining “Who Wants to Stab a Millionaire?” Attempts to secure Kathie Lee Gifford as a backup for this portion of the entertainment failed, in part due to her deft use of small, crippled children as human shields.

My Y2K-a-thon will begin with a round of the always-entertaining “Who Wants to Stab a Millionaire?”  Thanks to Ken MacDonald, daylight savings time, and a liter of isopropyl alcohol, four lucky mailing list members will get to take a large Ginsu knife to Bill Gates.  Then they get to piss on either Linus Torvalds or that kid from Netscape while Regis Philbin looks on approvingly.  Attempts to secure Kathie Lee Gifford as a backup for this portion of the entertainment failed, in part due to her deft use of small, crippled children as human shields. 

Play will then continue as the Rev. Al Sharpton helps me auction off  “A Date With My Big Dick.”  Fuck eBay and fuck the Nevada Gaming Commission.  One lucky, rich female fan will buy her way into a date with me and my big dick as we sail the South Caribbean Seas in search of Kurtis Blow or, failing that, a cheap, underprivileged labor force to uphold my Royal Lesbian Electrified Puppet Regime in Southeast Vermont.  Unless, of course, she’s ugly.  In that case, she gets a bottle of Vodka, a copy of “Weekend at Bernie’s II” and a fun-filled date with the rotting corpse of former President Richard M. Nixon.  Hey, I’ve got a wife - I’m not as desperate for free sex as I used to be.

[I’m really wondering what the HELL I was thinking when I gave my father-in-law the address for this Web site since his computer is about 4 feet from his shotgun rack.  So let’s all put down that shotgun and have a nice round of applause for this month’s ghost editorial writer, Mr. Kenneth “I’m in the Phone Book” MacDonald.]

And, because I still believe that a party just isn’t a party unless it ends with me not only naked but in a different time zone from my underwear, alcohol and alcohol related felony charges will be a central theme at my Y2k party.  You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Captain Lou Albano shrieking, “JESUS CHRIST!!!  THAT FISH WITH THREE HEADS IS HUMPING THAT DOG!!!  FOR THE LOVE OF THE SWEET, SWEET SHAFT OF MARION BARRY, WILL SOMEONE GIVE THAT FLOUNDER A VALIUM!!!” 

So I hope you’ll join me for my little fiesta. Remember - this party is going to be a lot more than just stabbing CEOs, auctioning off my genitalia, having elevator races at midnight, and seeing who can get the longest prison sentence.  It’s about celebrating where we’ve been as a people and what we’ve accomplished.  It’s about the rebirth of our culture and all the nascent hopes and dreams of our children and grandchildren.  But, most of all, it’s about Ralph Nader himself walking around saying, “Stay away from the salsa, man.  It kinda tastes like balls.”