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If 2020 was a house, it would be condemned

My Sentiments Exactly

Nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah nah, hey HEYYYYYY, GOODBYE!

I challenge you to find a single Homo sapien living on this big round ball who isn’t over the flipping moon that this year is ending.

Show of hands? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Zippo.

It would be so easy to 2020 all over the year we’re rapidly kicking to the curb.

Let’s face it, if it was a house, it’d have been condemned. If it was a carton of milk, it’d have been curdled and furry. If it was a song, it’d have been “MacArthur Park.”

Yeah, I am going there. Again. Don’t blame me, man. Blame 2020.

Look, I apologize for the millionth time to fans of Richard Harris (the singer) and / or Jimmy Webb (the lyricist), but I physically have to choke back chunks every time I hear the first few notes of that awful, awful song. Not kidding. The song does, in fact, make my mouth do that weird icky, watery thing that happens right before you upchuck. I’m just sayin’.

That song is garbage. I despise everything about it. The plingy-plangy pitch, the melancholy melody, the tacky tempo, Harris’s absurd inflection, the hideous horns. Gag.

And the words. Oh, the words.

“… MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet, green icing flowing down. Someone left the cake out in the rain; I don’t think that I can take it ’cause it took so long to bake it and I’ll never have that recipe again …”

Hands down, “MacArthur Park” contains the WORST.SONG. LYRICS. WRITTEN.

EVER.

Except for maybe Gangnam Style. And yes, I am referring to the original, annoying version AND its equally aggravating English translation.

Not sure how you say it in South Korean but BLECH to both. I digress, for the last time this year.

Dude, when even Donald Trump and Joe Biden agree that a 12-month span has stunk so badly, the government should give everyone money — TWICE! — well, you know it’s an indicator that the Four Horsemen are on their way to town. And that 2020 was the rottenest.

Sigh.

Look, I get it. The dropping of the ball at midnight Friday (is that even still happening?) won’t mean we suddenly are safe, healthy and happy again. Well, at least, as much as we were when it fell in good old 2019, anyway.

But it IS a sign of time marching on … I hope a lot faster that those four cruel cowboys can get their ponies to prance, ya dig?

It’s an indicator of the hope of tomorrow. Literally.

And I, for one, am going to be ecstatic to go back to some simple joys, the luxuries of a cheerier day when:

• Zoom was typically a reference to the sound really fast cars, airplanes and spaceships make;

• Masks were worn at costumes balls and on only one special night of the year — an evening full of spooky fun when people could actually hand candy to children without sanitizing the wrappers, the front porch and themselves before, during and after;

“Don’t Stand So Close to Me” was just a classic song by The Police, not a reason for calling the real ones;

• Hugging was not only OK but encouraged and enforced by many of us with reckless abandon. #CantWaitToSmotherMyPeeps

So go on, 2020, get the hex outta Dodge … and everywhere else, too. Capisce?

— Kimerer is a columnist who just wants to squeeze the stuffings out of her friend Beth Ann’s new baby already, a’ight? Send air kisses to www.patriciakimerer.com.

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