"Hey. Wait--I'll See You Next--Why Are You Stabbing Me?"

Don't you dare say this to me today or any time in the weeks leading up to the New Year. If, at any point you feel the urge to say, "I'll see you next year" to me, I promise you that you won't. There are two things that will happen as a result of you saying this to me. The first is that I may simply avoid you for all of 2006 as punishment for you being such a fucking moron. Besides, my life will be much easier without having to pretend that I like you. This punishment is reserved for family members only. The second, and much more likely result, will be that I will proceed to murder you as quickly and in whichever manner I deem most appropriate.

It is for this reason that I have rented a magician's coat so that I can dispatch of human life in as many interesting ways as possible.

Hopefully this is how my night goes.

"Hey, Kurt. I'll see you next y--Oh my God! Are those bees? Did bees just fly out of your mouth. They're stinging me. Oh dear God. It hurts so bad. I wish somebody would just finish me so I can avoid this immeasurable pain."

"Wow, those bees were crazy, Kurt. I guess he kind of deserved it. That guy was an idiot. I'll see you next y--Doves? That's awesome. How did you do that? Anyway, like I was saying, I'll see you next y--'Kali ma'? That's what that guy from Temple of Doom says when he pulls out people's hearts. Why are you saying--My chest. Oh, somebody help me. Kurt is removing my still beating heart from my chest cavity with his bare hands. Why are you all cheering? I--"

Sometimes I have to improvise.

"That was a cool trick when you pulled that guy's heart out of his chest. He really committed to it. He's still lying there on the floor. I have to go. The wife wants me home before midnight so we can celebrate together the way we always do: in one another's arms reminding each other how lucky we are that our souls have found one another on this huge, chaotic planet of ours. We'll probably hold our newborn son as well. Life is so wonderful. So I'll see you next--Ouch! I don't know how you did it, but you've pulled a full-size grandfather clock from behind my ear and now you're beating me to death with it. Why are you counting how many times you're hitting me? Ten. Ugh. Eleven--"

These words are me: "The clock strikes twelve, bitch!"

"Fine. I guess I won't see you next--Sunday." Deathed!

So I'm looking forward to tonight. It ought to be fun.