Resolved

 (Interior monologue, 8:17 a.m., January 1, 2026 ...)

"You're not really gonna do this, are you?"

"Do what?"

"The whole New Year's resolution thing. Come on, say you're not."

"Well ..."

"Oh, please! It's the most lame, hackneyed, unoriginal bit ever! You're better than that! And you don't how it kills me to say so!"

"Yeah, but ..."

"Omigod. You ARE! You ARE going to do it! And I suppose you're also going to drag out your same old lame, hackneyed line about 2026 kicking 2025 out on its treacherous ass, too, aren't you?"

"Well ..."

Well. So here we are.

Mere hours after 2026 kicked 2025 out on its treacherous ass.

A time for sober reflection, for re-assessing, for taking the measure of things. A time for  looking back and ahead at the same time, like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist."

OK. So maybe not exactly like that.

Actually, it's more a time when we resolve to do better, to be the best version of ourselves, and all the other New Year's Day junk that sounds really noble until you come back from the gym on January 2 and resolve never to do that again. 

And for me, personally?

It means the following:

I resolve not to look at the Hunts leaving Arrowhead Stadium for new digs across the state line in Kansas, and wonder for the eleventy-hundredth time why the taxpayers are footing part of the bill (in this case, about $600 million of it) when the Hunts are worth $24.8 billion and can PAY FOR THE DAMN THING THEMSELVES, THE FREELOADING BAST-

Sorry. Got a trifle carried away there. I resolve to stop doing that.

I also resolve to not pull my hair out yet again over what a mess college sports are these days. The latest? Some 7-foot basketball player from Nigeria was granted college eligibility even though he was taken with the 31st pick in the 2023 NBA draft and has played pro ball in Europe the last five years. 

His name is James Nnaji, and he's headed to Baylor. Now, the NCAA has decreed that no player under contract to an NBA team will be allowed to do what they're allowing Nnaji to do. But the guy's still a pro, and so you know -- you just know -- that sooner or later some kid from overseas who's signed with an NBA team will lawyer up and challenge that inequity. And he'll win because it's the NCAA and the NCAA always loses these things.

And so pretty soon Luka Doncic will be suiting up for, I don't know, Purdue or someone, and Nikola Jokic and Victor Wembanyama will be squaring off for Duke and North Carolina, respectively.

I resolve not to scream and yell and throw things at the TV if that happens. And, yes, I already know that one's goin' down.

So what else do I resolve?

I resolve not to write about the impending Travis Kelce-Taylor Swift nuptials more than eleventy-hundred times -- unless, that is, Travis decides to play another year, in which case all bets are off.

I also resolve to not post stuff about my sorry-ass Pittsburgh Cruds baseball team more than eleventy-hundred times. Or have a T-shirt made that says "Free Paul Skenes" and wear it around all summer.

(Notice I said, "ALL summer." Loopholes are fun.)

I resolve not to grumble and make old-man noises about the NHL playing the outdoor 2026 Winter Classic in FREAKING MIAMI tomorrow. I mean, the only ice in Miami this time of year -- or any time of year, really -- is in a mojito. Playing the Winter Classic there is stupid beyond the galactic boundaries of stupidity. What will the teams' throwback unis be, board shorts and tank tops? Will Coppertone be a sponsor? Wil-

Aw, crap. I'm already grumbling and making old-man noises. Well, that resolution was never going to see another sunrise, anyway.

Same goes for any and all resolutions that involve the NFL's kickoff rules; baseball's extra-innings rules (and that proposed Golden At-Bat rule, ridiculousness cubed); MMA fights on the White House lawn;  President Fearless Leader's proposed Patriot Games, which sound vaguely creepy in a Hitler Youth Games sort of way; and (choose one) the Trump World Cup , the Trump World Series, the Trump Indianapolis 500, the Trump Super Bowl and the Trump Masters featuring Trump's Creek, Trump Amen Corner and the Trump Cathedral of Pines.

I resolve not to let my head explode over any of it.

Aw, crap. Too late.