I have a dream. A hope. A spunky little New Year's wish. It is this: That we--you and I and other possibly sane and decidedly nonfascist persons--shall, inasmuch as possible, dance every dance, sing every song, and tickle every pickle in this fresh and terrifying 2005. Despite, and forgive me for mentioning such things in this glib and superficial context, tsunamis and the myriad fundamentalist Armageddon death cults (of so many delightful flavors, from all around the world!) currently conspiring to make sure that their respective apocalyptic prophecies fulfill themselves all over us.

Indeed. And many a happy return.

In the meantime (and in stark contradiction), please be advised that I was lying when I led the world to believe that I'd be making no predictions for this creepy new year in which we're trapped. In truth, I have a respectable handful of them. Predictions. I just always have to wait until Access Hollywood airs their annual New Year's predictions, otherwise they rip me off entirely. (The fuckers.) Here are some:

Firstly, famous skanky whores everywhere will, suddenly and inexplicably, simply stop bothering to cover their expensive tits with anything whatsoever and "wardrobe malfunctions" will spontaneously cease to exist. Next, Hal Sparks will marry me after wining a ferocious battle for my heart with a rogue gang of Abercrombie models. (No, not Ashton Kutcher, I'm so over that emaciated manbitch.)

It's possible to assume that Courtney Love might at some point ingest things, break people, and meet judges. It's also possible that Anna Nicole Smith, finally and officially denied any more of that rich old corpse's money, will be found dead on a toilet in some Reno motel, "choked on an egg-salad sandwich." (Knock knock.)

The pope will run no marathons. Castro will fall. Britney Spears and Michael Jackson will both be diagnosed with Shaken Baby Syndrome, but for totally different reasons. And that Hilary Duff? Well, the bitch will just explode somehow.

Also, George W. Bush will be impeached on election-fraud charges and, upon being found really GUILTY, will declare a martially enforced theocracy, close the borders, and force all citizens to accept his mark--in their hands or upon their foreheads--and by this mark the Beast shall know his children, and they shall be cast upon the lake of fire, and the face of the lord shall not look upon them. Or something. Then the American dollar will crash and I'll discover my frozen ass hiking to Canada, trailing a herd of von Trapp children and singing "Climb Every Mountain" with my life savings in diamonds in a balloon crammed up my ass. Mark my words.