I’m just going to throw this out there: VH1 was dead wrong
in its assessment of who had the best year ever.
For some reason, the television channel that introduced us
to New York’s peculiar beach-ball-sized breasts dubbed “rehab” the winner of
the 2007 title, from a field of competitors that also included Daniel Radcliffe
(confession: I still have yet to read or see any Harry Potter books or movies),
Sanjaya Malakar (the ponyhawk-sporting, not-gay loser of “American Idol”) and
the ambiguous category of “Internet sensations” (think “Leave Britney alone!”).
Though I don’t watch television very often, I can recognize
that VH1 wasted its pop-culture crown. For one, the nominees were flawed. I
mean, the producers of “Best Year Ever” didn’t even include some of 2007’s
biggest headline makers, and I’m not talking about Paris, Britney or Lindsay.
I’m talking about me. That’s right, sorry to break it to you
all, but I had the best year ever. I may not have assaulted a car with an
umbrella, cried about being hauled back to jail, had my child visitation rights
stripped, publicly uttered racial slurs, gotten pregnant or adopted a
malnourished foreign baby, but I did get an A-plus in VIS 21 (suck on that,
haters).
Really though, 2007 was a great year for me, and here’s a
recap of why:
February: Stumbled into Las Vegas on the same weekend as the
NBA all-star game, only to be greeted by the most ghetto-fabulous crowd you
could ever imagine (picture cheetah-print tights and more ’do-rags than a bad
rap video). During the longest, most drunken and most awkward elevator ride
I’ve ever had in my life, a group of gangsta guys told me and my friends, “It’s
all right. Y’all can laugh.” We then proceeded to cut in front of about 100
people waiting for a taxi outside our hotel by just walking to the front and
acting important. On the way home, a crazy old homeless guy lifted up his shirt
and shouted, “Have you ever seen anyone as sexy as this?” Naturally, I was
flattered.
April: Found a $20 bill on the ground. Bomb.
May: Chugged nearly half a bottle of a disgusting, warm
random brand of mango-flavored rum on Sun God and didn’t throw up. Baller.
June: Threw a full Rubio’s cup at some BMW-driving,
cell-phone-blabbing blonde La Jolla bitch who repeatedly honked at me in the
Ralphs parking lot for no reason.
September: Managed to suppress my anger when my roommate’s
friend thought it would be funny to throw a shot of whiskey in my eyes. (It was
actually kind of funny though.)
October: Didn’t have a Halloween costume, so I improvised by
grabbing the first things I could find in my room, which happened to be a toy
gun and an American flag. I ended up going as the “motherfuckin’ United
States.”
November: Saw a girl walking near the University Art Gallery
slip and fall in the dirt while trying to cut through the planter instead of
staying on the sidewalk. Of course, I’m the only one around to witness her
muddy plunge.
December: Ripped a metal pipe out of the ground and
off-roaded my friend’s dad’s Camry at a random bar. No further explanation
necessary.
As you can see, I’m clearly the winner here. Yeah, that’s
right — “rehab” don’t got shit on this. And I don’t need Frangela’s approval to
claim the title. I’ll just know that the top honor should have gone to me, let
2007 rest in peace and prepare myself for two-thousand-and-great.
