Happy New Year’s to the new parents, padding around in their socks and asleep by ten; to the babies, too, thoroughly unaware of orbital mechanics or Pope Gregory’s influence on the balloon and noisemaker industries.
Happy New Year’s to the paramedics with their spatulas, and even the cops. The nurses and surgeons and moppers of shit. The voices on the other end of 911. The Fire Chiefs and probies. Server monkeys. Tugboat captains. Frazzled nerds at power plants watching outdated meters and flicking retro switches, because someone gotta. Pilots and flight crews and the guy with the orange flashlights waving you in.
Happy New Year’s to the bass players and back-up singers and road managers, and to the magicians, and their assistants and rabbits; the dancers in the chorus, and the comics and drag queens. The pianists sitting in front of giant brandy glasses. Strippers with magical boobies and optimal dongs, and the sizable fellows that watch over them.
Happy New Year’s to the bartenders. And to the waitresses, God bless the waitresses, and save a place in heaven for the short-order cooks; the busboys shall inherit the Earth. Delivery drivers in their shitboxes bringing pizza to shitholes.
And to the drunken, and the doomed, and the dummies; the foolish and the absent-minded, and the bitter and mean; to all the ghosts and yearners, and those with hearts made of duct-tape. The weird, and the smelly: happy New Year’s, all you losers.
Happy New Year’s to all us losers.