VH1 Got It Wrong: I Had the ‘Best Year Ever’

    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.

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