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New Year's Resolutions: A Look Back at Unfair Park's 2007 That Was in Review

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Alas, our final post of 2007 (maybe) -- the highlights, lowlights and stoplights of a year that included a nasty but somehow boring mayoral election, a bitter dispute over the Trinity River toll road, Jim Schutze's endless tussles with editors and writers at Dallas' Only Daily, Tony Romo's baggage carousel of A-minus-list hotties, the ruckus raised over the Bush think tank-burger stand at SMU, an endless debate over the fate of Deep Ellum and other footnotes both significant and utterly pointless.

Feel free to pile on with your own resolutions below -- preferably, after you've chugged your affordable bottle of brut-force bubbly. We return Wednesday morning, with plans to unveil a few changes in coming weeks. Till 2008, then, a Happy New Year's from your Friends at Unfair Park. --Robert Wilonsky

I will stop trying to get my 20-year-old Honduran boyfriend deported.

I will stop crank-calling T. Boone Pickens.

I will have Howard Forbes' wife write my obituary.

I will stop putting my dick in your food.

I will stop trying to re-open Trees.

I will take down my poster of Bob Mong's mugshot.

I will ask my father to contribute to Unfair Park more often.

I will be totally fine with it when Deep Ellum turns into West Mockingbird Village Station.

I will take up Mike Snyder on his offer, finally.

I will never get on stage with Metal Skool again. Or not.

I will not move into the DISD's boundaries.

I will try to get Points to devote a whole page to me too.

I will pretend I always believed Wade Phillips was the right guy for the job.

I will leave town before I ever admit that I picked Don Hill as the mayoral-race front runner.

I will stop asking David Lynch about product placement in the movies.

I will stop asking Mark Cuban for money.

I will get 473 valid signatures next time, swear!

I will stop plagiarizing from Darrell Jordan.

I will stop referring to you as The Kinky Preacher, if you stop with the spanking.

I will stop getting high with my young relatives.

I will stop falling asleep whenever Gary Cogill asks me a question.

I will stop making sports predictions.

I will stop saying, "Toldyaso."

I will finally shave this fucking beard.

I will stop making out with my short-lived country-singing girlfriends at Ghostbar.

I will stop pretending like I'm friends with Rudy Giuliani.

I will stop finding Sam Coats so goddamned adorable.

I will find something to do with Anna Nicole Smith's crap, which I mistakenly bought at auction after a drunken binge.

I will stop putting personal pictures on blogs, at least till I go to work at D.

I will stop demanding you refer to me as "Taylor Reid" whenever I get naked.

I will stop screwing around with women in rental facilities with video cameras.

I will check out the Gypsy Tea Room -- I hear that place is happenin'.

I will learn how to spell "clevis."

I will stop posting my private diary entries on Jessica Simpson's Web site.

I will stop inviting Farmers Branch city council members to my quinceanera.

I will stop referring to Dallas as "the next San Francisco."

I will learn the meaning of "mischaracterization."

I will only drink after I get stuck on the tarmac at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, not before I get on the plane.

I will never rest till the city pays for a statue of me. Ever.

I will never again have my picture taken whilst eating Wild About Harry's custard.

I will stop growing my weed so close to Drug Enforcement Agency headquarters. But I won't stop smoking it in the DEA's parking lot.

I will stop laying off journalists while paying myself $5 million.

I will reconsider that Dancing With the Stars invitation.

I will never again make salmon and pesto for Ted Allen.

I will win an Academy Award this year, for best short films about Lower Greenville's signage and frat boys.

I will stop conducting televised interviews with celebrities while not smart.

I will stop showing my ass on TV too.

I will stop bringing my gun to temple.

I will continue to use my political position to carry out personal vendettas.

For the last time, I will not pull up my goddamned pants.

I will try to stop lying about the Trinity River. But don't count on it.

I will get back together with Sophia Bush.

I will work past 5:01 p.m.

I will stop telling Rebecca Aguilar where I go to buy my guns.

I will stop wearing novelty T-shirts on Southwest flights.

I will try to stop getting indicted by federal grand juries. No promises, though.

I will find flattery even in pejoratives.

Before leading the revolution, I will remember to pay my traffic tickets.

I will stop asking, "Where's Greggo?" Unless we need the numbers.

I will get on The List, even if I have to buy Kern Wildenthal $125,000 worth of wine.

I will stop driving on Stemmons Expressway, except when going to go-go clubs.

I will stop moving next to bars and blaming them for the loud noise.

I will stop pretending people actually listen to broadcast radio.

I will not run for sheriff. But I might run for county judge, 'cause it don't look that hard.

I will never again dance in public after one too many.

I will stop sucking. But I will never stop blowing.

I will stop making up dead husbands just for lousy Hannah Montana tickets.

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