ey, remember 2005? It seems like only yesterday it was everywhere, sweetie… the fashions, the fads, the music (which you can download for free). Everybody was watching Lost and Googling Linsay Lohan. This year, it’s repeats of Lost and the Pitt-Jolie baby. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget those more innocent times.

The world started 2005 believing the biggest events to come would be the trial of Michael Jackson and the debut of Star Wars, Episode III, but were they ever wrong. Goddamn, sweetie, were they wrong.

Even if the big Star Wars finale was the biggest grossing movie of the year, the movie everyone was talking about was gay cowboy non-musical extravaganza Brokeback Mountain. A studio-financed My Own Private Idaho, the film featured a classic lovestory all Y-chromosomed up for today’s modern metrosexuals. I, for one, loved this shit out of it, hon.

It sure beat the hell out of the “biggest movie of 2005,� as everybody promoted it—only to have it being the biggest underwhelming movie of all time: King Kong. The movie under-performed to all expectations, possibly due to somebody leaking a copy of the movie to the Internet and an early cut of the film to the theaters in 1933. Remember 1933? Prohibition and flappers? That’s another column, sweets.

The country went crazy for TV, too. America was desperate for Desperate Housewives and lost our minds for Lost. We also continued the C.S.I./Law & Order craze as they collectively dominated three-five nights a week of televisions. And how about those new television shows we all went crazy for? That’s right—there were none.

And remember the music everyone was listening to in 2005? Neither do we. There was some Kelly Clarkson, some Kanye West, and 50 Cent mumbled some shit here and there. Where’s the club beat, bitch? Notice I didn’t say bi-atch? Too toooo 2004.

As for the news itself, there was no bigger story than the sad destruction of partyzone and Girls Gone Wild unofficial headquarters of New Orleans at the inhuman hands of heartless bitch Hurricane Katrina. As if that wasn’t enough, several frontin’ hurricane wanna-bes also tore shit up elsewhere.

The other big news stories were the continuing death of innocents for the unnecessary war in Iraq, but we leave that coverage to the no-spin zone doctoring of Bill O’Reilly. We were sadder about the death of one of the 20th century’s most pivotal religious figures, Johnny Carson. And how about the others we lost? Bob Denver, Chief Justice William Rehnquist, Lou Rawls, and John Paul Pope, some kind of Christian prophet.

After years of a firm status quo, 2005 saw the shake up of not one, but two Supreme Court justices retiring (one for good) to open up the doors to the future’s arch-conservative oligarchy.

And who can forget the unforgettable catch-phrases of 2005? “Michael Jackson’s Jesus Juice�? “Cronyism�? “Mark McGwiroids�? None of these quite caught on with the national consciousness. No, 2005 was truly a year when nothing stuck in your brain. But the commune did take a severely long vacation, and that was da bomb, baby-doll. Let’s hope for more of that in 2006.

ensions ran high in the world court this week as prosecutors continued what will undoubtedly be the greatest trial of the century, at least for a long time: The world vs. Kris Kringle, also known as Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas, et al. It was a trial marked by emotional outbursts and brutal accusations of crimes against humanity.

Kringle, led into the courtroom with his ankles shackled together and a series of elaborate handcuffs binding his hands, sat quiet through most of the prosecution's presentation of evidence. For the defense was world-famous Swedish lawyer Jorgen Fiord, who successfully defended Argentine dentist Emilio Rodriguez in 1996 against charges he was the infamous "Tooth Fairy."

"This man, sitting right here—though he may appear jolly, and have the very glint of holiday joy in his eyes, is at best a worldwide fraud and perpetrator of lies," presented attorney Manfred Hauser for the prosecution. "At worst, he's the greatest terrorist in the history of mankind."

Hauser was referring to the charges levied against the alleged jolly old elf: the first, pretending to provide toys and presents to all the children of the world, when in fact they're bought and delivered by the children's parents; two, attempting to set up a non-profit "holiday" religion by infringing upon the beliefs of Christianity; three, initiating and operating international pyramid schemes of "helpers" on street corners and department stores everywhere; four, cruelty to animals, i.e. specifically the training and illegal housing of endangered reindeer; and five, violating labor laws and international laws against slavery, specifically regarding the livelihood of diminutive people.

Kringle had the entire world on the edge of their seats, awaiting how he would plea, when he finally entered a statement of "not guilty" two weeks ago.

The trial has been the focus of the entire world ever since the world-famous "Santa Claus" was taken into custody last year, Sept. 19, 2012, by Russian soldiers while leading a Chechan rebels' rebellion during his so-called "off season." Tipped off by local naughty boys, soldiers found Kringle hidden beneath a collapsed chimney that he may have been using as a home for as long as six weeks. The U.N. had planned to try Claus in October of this year, but thought given the circumstances they could postpone the event until the holiday season.

The highlight of Thursday's trial included the testimony of an anonymous elf, known only to the jury as "Sprinkles," alleging Kringle used magic powers to extend the days just so he could make his elf workforce work 28-hour shifts. The testimony took a turn for the lewd as the witness alleged, through sobs and comically high-pitched crying, Santa Claus made the workplace even more uncomfortable with the use of a device called a "mistletoe belt buckle."

"Humbug!" exclaimed Kringle, standing up and shaking a green-gloved fist at the video screen. "Complete and utter humbug! And there's no use disguising your voice—I know it's you, Butterscotch! He's a liar, your honor! Check his closet and you'll see—nothing but coal!"

Kringle denounced the trial as a sham, and tried to remind the court of the reason for the season, but was warned by Judge Avril Harkrieger he would be bound and gagged if he didn't keep quiet, and maybe would anyway, if the judge wanted it bad enough.

Each day the trial has been marred by protests outside, middle- to upper-class kids demanded Santa's release, and several children living below the poverty line demanded years worth of retroactive gifts.

New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever.

Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes.

This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a shitload of dogs running together like in the old Chuck Wagon commercials. I had to rush and do a half-ass job of setting a parade float on fire just to get home in time to watch the Times Square countdown, a yearly tradition for lazy, television-watching sons of bitches everywhere.

Now, no one needs a call from CNN to catch the breaking news that New Year's television sucks big wet titty. Any time they schedule over two hours of air time for a ten-second event, you know there's going to be more crappy filler than a case of Winky's, those off-brand Twinkie knock-offs Foghat always wants every year for Christmas. About four seconds after the ball drops, they unleash an endless cavalcade of morons strategically positioned around Times Square, standing around saying shit like "There sure are a lot of people here… yep…" I haven't seen that many uncomfortable silences on TV since they gave that narcoleptic Chevy Chase his own late-night show.

After the depressing spectacle of listening to Dick Clark drunk his way through the ball-dropping countdown, I was in heavy need to distraction, so I went quick to the pantry for the case of Safeway beer I'd been saving all year for the occasion. Two minutes after the drop was over, Dick was still on stuck on twenty-seven, and I was really glad I'd saved the beer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs, ladies and gentlemen, and I spilled an entire case of beer on the couch. Some would say that's what I get for opening all the cans at once, but you save time your way, I'll save it mine. I just wish I'd noticed that the beer was spilling sooner, since the couch swelled up so much it pitched me onto Foghat's loveseat, and I accidentally touched way more dog underbelly than I care to admit. Now Foghat won't even look me in the eye, which makes going to his room to use the Super Nintendo especially uncomfortable.

That's right about when the neighborhood mob showed up to get their mailboxes back, which I'd been driving around collecting all night so I could open up my own Mailboxes ETC and hook up some sweet business tax breaks for 2006. I had to take a break from juicing my couch to talk the mob out of setting my neighbor Hamms on fire, because he had about 400 mailboxes lined up in his front yard like some kind of surreal drive-in theater (I didn't want to fuck up my grass). It all ended okay though, since I was able to convince the mob that the mailbox caper was exactly the kind of thing my other neighbor Mitch would do, and he wasn't home, so I had everybody over to my place to help suck the beer out of my couch.

Which may sound like a great time, yeah, but actually it was kind of weird. So screw New Year's. Bricks out.

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