I will end the year in my usual fashion: Grab a 12-pack of Leinenkugel and two packages of Double Stuf Oreos and climb into my hyperbaric chamber inside my backyard sweat lodge. Four hours later, as the calendar turns to Jan. 1, I emerge cleansed and wrung out of all of 2010's detritus and fresh for a new year.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, perhaps you've had a bit too much to drink.

Associated Press is reporting that the NCAA is investigating allegations that the Husker team that played in last night's Holiday Bowl was in fact a flash mob comprising theater, dance and cake-making students from L.A. and, just as shocking, that Shawn Watson is not a real coach, but rather the winner of an ESPN reality show called "So You Think You Can Coach Offensively?"

A dumb blonde found a copy of “The Total Woman” and wanted to try its advice of meeting her husband at the door nude and wrapped in cellophane. But she was out of cellophane, had to improvise and ended up with a nasty case of aluminum foil rash all over her body. Worse, she discovered her husband has a foil fetish. Now he only gets interested if she lets him call her Reynolds and offers herself to him shiny side up.

I'm about to send to family and friends my annual list of New Year's Resolutions I've prepared individually for each of you. Those that are asterisked are the ones you'd really help me out by addressing first, and those that are bold-faced and in red are carryovers from 2010 that you haven't addressed yet. No need to thank me. Seeing you finally get your shit together will be thanks enough.

Father may know best, but if he knows what's good for him, he still clears it with Mother first.

There's probably a market niche for a AAA-like outfit, except it would respond to workplace emergencies rather than road emergencies. It'd be called CYA Inc., natch, and it would rescue clients from disastrous workplace errors. Crisis crews would go to offices to save careers by creating backdated exculpatory documents, e-mails or medical excuses; committing desk or file-cabinet arson; framing coworkers; and if there's an especially problematic colleague or boss, well, you'd be amazed how often bathroom hand dryers explode.

It did my heart good when, after watching "True Grit" (tremendous, BTW), I went to the public library's website to see if a copy of the 1968 novel on which it's based was available for checkout and found there was a 20-person waiting list for it. Granted, the library system has only two copies, but still ... a movie making people want to read? Who'da thunk it?

I am resolved in 2011 to achieve my longtime dream of appearing on TV as one of my three favorite local-news characters -- Concerned Citizen Who Thinks Something Should be Done, Neighbor Who Thought Man Next Door SEEMED Nice and Quiet Enough, or Guy Who Imagines His Fight Against City Hall Is A Struggle for Civil Rights When Really He's Just an Asshole For Refusing to Live By Reasonable Rules Everyone Else Accepts.

Men, it's tricky to buy clothing for the women in your life -- too small, and though she might feel initially flattered, when she exchanges it, there's that moment she realizes she wore that size a year ago -- what the hell happened? However, too large and, well, I guess I don't have to spell that out, do I? Both errors can cause women to feel self-loathing or, worse, you-loathing. I love clothing store gift cards.

I resolve in 2011 to continue celebrating my inner child, but perhaps to drill a little deeper and tap into the cute, sweet 5-year-old one, instead of indulging every inappropriate whim and smart-ass comment that the 14-year-old right beneath the surface comes up with.

OK, everyone, stay cool, don't panic, but we may be out of chocolate. I said DON'T PANIC! Help your sister up -- you guys trampled her half to death. We've drilled for this, you know what to do. Everyone search a room -- couch cushions, under furniture. Check all pockets. Wait, what are you hiding behind your back, son? I don't care if it's from last year, covered in lint and the dog was licking it -- hand it over, it's mine; ah, one last piece.

I was so lazy Sunday I basically became my cat. Napped on couch, napped in bed, napped on chair. Between naps, I waddled to bowls of food, stuck my face in. I glared balefully at others in the household just on general principles. I don't think I used the litter box, but given how out of it I was, I can't be sure. What troubles me is I even hacked up what appeared to be a hairball today. Still, not a bad way to live.

I have a question for my constitutional-law expert friends: I know free speech is not unlimited – that, to quote Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, falsely shouting “fire” in a crowded theater is verboten. Fine, but what about yelling, say, “Little Fockers" in a crowded firehouse?

I am resolved in 2011 to get up to speed on more of the hymns sung at my church. I think the priest is on to my lip-synching, as he stares right at me as I move my lips soundlessly. That's not my concern, as I’m pretty sure he fakes it sometimes, too, but it's only a matter of time before he figures out the go-to standards I use when I don’t know the words: "Louie Louie" or, for longer hymns, "Like a Rolling Stone."

I'm full of peace and good will to men. Also: rib roast, twice-baked potatoes, broccoli and about a pound and a half of peanut brittle. OK, truth be told, there may not be much room in there for peace and good will right now. Tomorrow, though, I promise.

I just saved Christmas. I can't go into any detail here, but I'm pretty sure you'll hear all about it in one of those Hallmark specials by this time next year. In any case, you're welcome, everybody.

For many children, the end of Christmas innocence comes when they notice that mom and dad use the exact same wrapping paper as Santa, but the smartest kids wait at least a couple of years before they let on.

My Christmas wish to you: May you not encounter the three most awful words of Christmas Eve. No, not "Oysters taste weird." Not: "Mom, you're Santa?" Not: "Seriously, taste 'em." Not: "Dog's puking tinsel." Not: "Oysters definitely bad (urp)." Not: "Walmart, once more." Not: "Um, shitter's full." Not: "Yep -- expired June." Not: "911? Food poisoning!" No, the three most awful words of Christmas Eve: "Some assembly required."

Dr. Seuss’s romanticizing of the condition notwithstanding, if you really feel your heart grow three sizes, get to a cardiologist immediately. It’s called cardiomegaly, and it’s nothing to trifle with. What Seuss glossed over is that the Grinch dropped dead months later while carving the hotdogs at the Whoville's 4th of July bash. The Whos knew he'd been unwell -- he just hadn't looked very green lately.

In the waning minutes of the work year, the university about to shut down until Jan. 3, and with but a few souls still slaving away, I embark on my favorite holiday office tradition: Dozens of e-mails, memos in inboxes and phone messages for absent colleagues, sent after 4:30: “Urgent -- HUGE problem, it’s really hitting the fan; need to meet ASAP 1/3, better clear your January calendar. BTW, is your resume updated?”

I miss the Christmases of yore when my adorable little son or daughter would hand me a homemade card or gift -- created with great love but alas, to be brutally honest, utter artistic ineptitude -- and I would gaze upon it and ask, uncertainly, “What, child, is this?”

I'm willing to accept that it's better to give than to receive, but only if everyone else is on board with it, too. Otherwise, some of us are really gonna get screwed.

Ode to the Christmas Letter

Dear friend: A bunch of us met via conference call last month to plan an intervention. I volunteered to make our case to you, so here goes: By all means, write a Christmas letter. But, please, for the love of God, when you get to the part where you always have your cat "write" a couple of paragraphs, stop, just stop. Close the document, walk away from the computer. Do not do this.

Nobody thinks this is cute. We all agreed: When your letter arrives, we all open it with a mixture of apprehension, concern for your sanity and snarky, mean-spirited anticipation. "Oh, Lord, do you think the cat's gonna write again? Sure enough, here we go: 'My owner says I'm vewwy, vewwy spoiled, but I think I'm just purr-fect ...'" Yes, you use that stupid pun every year. We are not proud of our nasty laughs at your expense; hence, the intervention. Just make it stop, OK?

Ah, the Christmas letter -- as old as Christendom itself. In fact, Joseph was the first to write one. Oh, how he went on and on and on about his foster son. "He walks on water ... heals the sick, cures the lame ... turns water into wine ... oh, the miracles my boy creates. He's the Savior of the world, did I mention that? As for me, the carpentry work has slowed a bit, but, on the positive side, I am a Saint now. So I got that going for me, which is nice."

On top of all that, Joseph called his missives Immaculate Communications. Oy.

Like Joseph’s, many Christmas letters are exercises in self-absorbed, bombastic braggadocio that seem meant to make those on the receiving end feel inadequate and incomplete. Others make clumsy runs at cute and clever, like having a pet or baby "contribute." Another favorite technique is to butcher "The Night Before Christmas," "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus," or some other classic as a vehicle for the letter. (In the interest of full disclosure, I have done this myself, but I didn't respect myself in the morning. If you insist on this approach, be original. Adopt, say Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" or Joyce's "Ulysses." This will delight some, baffle most and, in either case, thoroughly establish your intellectual superiority to your readers.)

Some letters commit multiple offenses against the English language. Then there are those gems that do all of the above.

No wonder the Christmas letter tradition has gotten a bad rap over the years, and many sophisticates and would-be sophisticates sneer at them.

Not me, though. The Christmas letter is about the only regular personal written communication left that consists of more than the paltry few characters that Twitter and Facebook permit. So, it is a tradition to be embraced, not scorned. And yes, I approach some of them, as I would a car wreck by the side of the road, with an unhealthy anticipation of just how awful they're going to be, but that's part of the fun. So, keep ‘em coming, even if you must let your cat write.

I just finished our letter myself. Like most everything I write, I despise doing it but am thrilled when it's done. Truth be told, I wouldn't write one at all, were it not for my wife withholding Christmas goodies from me until it's completed -- she locks me up with nothing but carrots and celery to eat until I slide copy under the door. It’s the same way an old newspaper editor got work out of me – although with the promise of last call, rather than Christmas treats, as motivation.

You’ll be happy to read in our letter that we Mosers had a great year, much better than yours, I’m sure. In fact, this might be our last traditional Christmas letter. As I tried to capture 2010, it occurred to me that this tired old format is woefully insufficient to capture the sheer awesomeness of a year in the life of my family.

So, next year I anticipate sending a web link to my friends and relatives. At that site, you'll find a multimedia extravaganza: a series of PowerPoints outlining each family member’s accomplishments for the year and resolutions, sure to be kept, for the next; testimonial letters; a half-dozen videos, several of which I expect to be so incredibly heartwarming and spectacular that they’ll go viral ala Susan Boyle; and supporting documents including a financial report, recipes, TSA body scans, white papers, report cards, scholarship awards and employee evaluations.

But that’s next year. For now, I need to wrap the letter up and get it to my cat for editing.

Yeah, that's right: Our cat's my editor. A damn good one, too; in fact, he contributes most of my best lines – though also the occasional gratuitous swipe at dogs, which I'm trying to break him of. He’ll also translate it into Spanish and, by next year, I expect he'll be trained to do the sign language interpretation for our online missive. (He's also really itching to do that "Ulysses" treatment, by the way.)

Which makes our cat way smarter than that idiotic feline of yours for whom you have to ghost-write – and, come to think of it, way smarter than your kids, too, I’ll bet.

Not that I'm bragging.

Well, Merry Christmas, all. I hope you still can enjoy it, even knowing how inferior your family is to ours. I’ll pray for such acceptance -- lucky for you, my prayers are always answered “yes.”

As are the cat’s. (Editor’s note: I added that. Also: Cats rule, dogs drool.)

I grew up in a backward, primitive time when boxes of chocolate were unlabeled, so you had to rely on intuition, or more likely the poke of a finger, to avoid coconut. Kids today don’t know how good they have it, with diagrams and two-layer boxes. But hear this, punks: It is Bad Chocolate Etiquette to sneak to the lower level to snag a favorite when there’s still candy, even if it’s coconut, on the first level. Capice?

In honor of today's big news out of Washington, I'm spending the day asking and telling.

Bad news, kids: Santa suffered a pretty serious groin injury and may not be able to go this weekend. It's his own fault, really, for ignoring Mrs. Claus's warning against "one more 'so, how's my little ho, ho, ho'" greeting.

I got one helluva lot of work done today, considering this is the shortest day of the year. To make up for it, I intend to give a pretty half-assed effort on the Summer Solstice.

My chance to be a child prodigy or boy wonder long ago passed me by, and, as another year nears its end, it’s getting pretty late in the game to be a late bloomer, too. It's safe to say spunky oldster is not in the cards, either, so I'm gonna go ahead and get an early start on angry old crank. Let's practice: "You kids get off my lawn!" Yes, I think I'm up to it.

Looking Back, and Maybe Forward, a Little, but Mostly Living in the Present

As a parent, I am not much for sentimental reflections about what used to be. Life marches on, sands go through the hourglass, time waits for no one, we raise our children to let them go -- what, you haven't gone yet, kid? Go, go, go!

Yes, I'm all about looking to the future. For example, I am itching to turn all the kids' old bedrooms into a series of bitchin' themed rooms. The piece de resistance will be an exact replica of my college apartment, circa 1981, complete with posters of The Clash, Dan Fouts and Cheryl Tiegs; a larder stocked with Falstaff-brewed plain-label beer (white can, black type sez "BEER"; accept no substitute), mac & cheese, ramen noodles and turkey dogs; some rank, dingy furniture and stained shag carpet; a vintage record player and crates of old LPs. And for old times' sake, I'll have my hot college girlfriend over for some Domino's pizza and a little action on the smelly, sagging couch.

I'm gonna need to move quickly, though, for I fear my wife has other plans. I walked in on her unexpectedly in one of the rooms, and she quickly shoved a tape measure and wallpaper samples down her blouse. I'm tempted to check her Internet history, see if she's been surfing home-decor porn again --you know, the Ethan Allen website and such. I might have to sweeten this deal by offering her the role of Hot College Girlfriend. Yes, I'm sure that would cinch it.

The point is I am adjusting just fine to our slowly emptying nest.

OK, I admit this is a bit of brave facade, for even I get a little wistful and sentimental, especially during the holidays and especially this year. For 2010 is a milestone for us. By this time next year, our oldest son will be out of college, married and -- dear God, let it be so -- employed. Our second son is probably a year or so behind him. Another daughter started college this year; our youngest is a freshman in high school who took great pleasure in pointing out middle of this semester that she was 1/16th of the way through high school already.

So, this likely is the last year that the nuclear family will gather -- just the six of us -- to celebrate the Yuletide and ring in another new year. And they won't be around the house for long, as they all have other, more enticing, offers. My wife had to have everyone get their calendars out last night to schedule a time to make Christmas cookies together. I think we found a two-hour window on the 24th that will work for all, but stay tuned.

I don't want to overplay this; I'm sure plenty of adventures await us, including plenty of family Christmases. Heck, in a few more years I expect to have grandkids gathering 'round me to plead, "Grandpa, please, please, please tell us more stories about being a newspaperman. And Grandpa, what is a newspaper?"

When you first have children, older parents love to tell you, "cherish every moment; they grow up so fast." And you roll your eyes because you cannot imagine this innocent, helpless babe in arms learning to go to the bathroom and dress him or herself, going to that first sleepover, learning to drive, going on a first date and falling in love (presumably, not all in the same night). But they're right, of course. It's gone in the blink of an eye.

My wife sometimes says she'd give just about anything to go back in time and have one week, one day, one hour of her life back when our children were small -- just one more moment with them on her lap, looking at her as if she were the center of their world and could do no wrong. And, truth be told, so would I.

But that's not to be. While even I might indulge in some longing glances to past Christmases this week, we'll mostly celebrate the present.

And I might allow myself to imagine the future. The scene: what appears to be an early '80s college apartment, lit only by a flickering neon Coors sign, "The River" scratchily playing on a cheap stereo, a couple grappling on an ugly, stained couch. The door suddenly opens, light floods in and a tiny voice yells, "Grandpa, what are you and Grandma doing?"

Note to self: Make sure to put a deadbolt on the inside of that door.

Uh-oh. The EPA has encountered some surprising and very troubling mutant creatures and behaviors along the Gulf Coast this month, apparently caused by environmental damage from the oil spill earlier this year. They’ve seen drummers a-swimming, pipers a-leaping, geese a-milking, maids stuck in a pear tree and – most hideous of all -- lords a-laying ... swans. Damn you, BP -- you've ruined Christmas!

They say the truth will set you free. Perhaps. But then so can a really good lie.

And the Angel of the Lord appeared in a dream and said unto me, "Lay off the eggnog and fudge, fat ass." And I was sore afraid. "WTH, Angel of the Lord," I said. "Don't you have more important news to proclaim this time of year?" Then I realized it was Jillian Michaels' voice I'd heard; someone left "The Biggest Loser" on the bedroom TV overnight. Wow, maybe I'm a little closer to the holiday abyss than I thought.

We’re not doing enough to assure the security of ATMs. Yes, I keep my PIN number secret, patronize only well-lit machines at night and am wary of nearby strangers. But I hardly think it's paranoid to question the trustworthiness of the squirrels inside the ATMs who look at our cards, write our PIN numbers in their ledgers, take money from our accounts, count it and shove it through the slot. Who's with me?

Bad news, kids: Immigration raided Santa's workshop. He had a bunch of illegals working there -- penguins from Antarctica. He likes 'em because they're non-union; keep their mouths shut, unlike those jabbering elves; work for fish; don't need the shop heated; and they really rock the March of the Tin Soldier. Also, they do jobs the elves won't -- scoop reindeer poop, assemble Lady Gaga action figures, rub Mrs. Claus's warty feet.

By the way, looking for a piece of hay in a needlestack is no picnic either.

You know what they say happens when you assume. However, when you subsume, you make subs for U and Me, and that sounds pretty tasty, doesn't it? So, by all means, subsume away.

I learned my lesson last Christmas. This year, we are NOT inviting Uncle Ed, with his figgy pudding fetish. Sure enough, he wasn't kidding -- he wouldn't go until he got some, and it took 10 days for the special order to arrive from England. In the meantime, that jackwagon drank every last cup of good cheer in the house.

Take it from me: When the cashier asks if you found everything you were looking for, she's not interested in an existential debate over whether any of us ever really finds what we're looking for, or, for that matter, whether it is even possible to truly know what we're looking for. And the people behind you in line aren't interested either. It's sad, but no one wants to discuss Important Thoughts anymore.

I am resolved in 2011 to drop the passive-aggressive game-playing. From now on, when I have a point to get across to you idiots, I'm going aggressive-aggressive.

I wonder why prostate exams aren't called manograms and, as long as I've sunk that low, I also wonder why, when someone has a portion of their large intestine surgically removed, what's left isn't called a semicolon.

Big whoop. I've gone to work -- and more than once a week, mind you -- for well over 297 straight weeks. About 1,432, in fact, and without six months off every year. And I'll bet I've absorbed way more unnecessary roughness hits in the workplace than Favre, not to mention more concussions, albeit often self-inflicted, from beating my head against walls, desks, etc. So, color me unimpressed by The Streak.

Although his football career appears over, doctors are confident that with surgery, determination and some grueling physical therapy, Brett Favre should be up and texting again in six months. However -- and this could be tragic -- they're not sure he'll ever be able to open his own fly again without assistance. Fortunately, John Madden already has announced he'd be willing to be Favre's, um, manservant.

I can confirm, based on my experience taking the trash out the other day, that, though it is surely the most obvious and overdone of slapstick cliches, you can, in fact, end up flat on your ass if you step on a banana peel. Now, for my next trick, I shall have an anvil dropped on my head to see if I become one of those little pleated men, making an accordion sound as I walk.

Inspirational thought for a Monday: You've heard of the fox in the henhouse? Well, some days you're a hen in the foxhouse. You can squawk, flap your wings, jump up and down, even lay an egg or two as a diversionary tactic if you'd like. But there's no avoiding it: Somebody's gonna have you for lunch.

Sweet dreams are made of these

“Binge eating” isn’t quite the phrase I’d use for my eating habits this time of year. Maybe “chain eating." Defined as shoving food in your mouth while still chewing the previous mouthful, making for a constant flow.

I’m not saying I do this kind of eating nonstop through the holiday season. But it’s not for lack of trying. For example, I've wondered if I could puree a mixture of holiday sweets and pour the viscous soup into the water chamber of my sleep-apnea CPAP machine, so I could just breathe it in while I sleep. My wife probably would have to peel myself off the ceiling every morning from the overnight sugar high, but that seems a small price to pay.

I suppose this would end badly, though, with me the subject of one of those Associated Press odd-death briefs that show up in newspapers all over the country. Headline: "Man Asphyxiates in Sleep; Nasal Passages Found Clogged with Chocolate." No doubt, some smartass copy editors wouldn't be able to resist the obvious "Death by Chocolate" joke at my expense. I know I'd go there if I were writing that head.

(By the way, do any of you have moments in your life when you're doing something monumentally dopey or careless that, if something goes awry, could end in a very messy, embarrassing, but undeniably hilarious death, and you think, "damn, this could make for a helluva story, might even make 'The Daily Show,' or at least the network TV news, as an end-of-broadcast item, after which the anchor would shake his head ruefully and try, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile?" And then you imagine people at your funeral, torn between mourning your untimely demise and laughing hysterically about your idiocy? And your spouse and kids dealing with the mixture of sadness and humiliation at work and school, respectively? No? I'm the only one who imagines this? Well, never mind then.)

Geez, that was an unfortunate digression in the middle of musing about holiday-eating, wasn't it?

Not all holiday sweets are created equal, of course. I mean, in a pinch, yeah, I’ll eat a piece of divinity or maybe even some gas-station peanut brittle. But those aren't my first choices. Or 10th.

I admit I'm a bit of a traditionalist, drawn to the Christmas sweets of my youth. Three favorites:

-- Fudge. Now, things can get ugly here. Buffet tables have been overturned, fists thrown and candy thermometers shoved into bodily orifices over this argument: Should fudge have walnuts or not? I'm a no-nut man myself – keep your jokes to yourself, please. Don't get me wrong -- if stuck with nothing but walnut fudge, I can manage. I'm not going to NOT eat fudge, after all. So, I've mastered the trick of putting a piece of walnut fudge in my mouth and slowly eating the chocolate from around the nuts; it takes a lot of saliva and some pretty complicated tongue movement -- OK, go ahead: That's what she said! -- so it's not for amateurs. Then I find a spot where I can discretely spit out the walnuts.

-- The homemade Christmas sugar cookie. Some people prefer them plain and unadorned. But they are wrong. Frosted and loaded with sprinkles and other decorations is the only way to go, with extra points for Red Hots as noses and buttons. The homemade Christmas cookie is made with loving care, warmth and, often, a child’s disgusting, grubby hands, so make sure the snowman's raisin eyes actually are raisins before you eat them, OK?

Indeed, for me, the smell of Christmas cookies baking is the smell of Christmas itself. To walk into a home filled with that aroma is to know you are in the presence of love, warm-heartedness and good cheer. And even if the home in question doesn’t, in fact, have any of that, it still has cookies. So, grab a couple and get the hell out before the family starts fighting over fudge again.

-- Then there are those old-fashioned hard Christmas candies -- ribbon shaped, round, square, and so on. These were ubiquitous when I was a child; you'd find them in little bowls here, there and everywhere. I don't see them so much anymore. The problem is that after a week or two, they tend to meld into one solid chunk of candy. Maybe it's the humidity in the air. Or maybe the same grubby little angel that made those Christmas cookies has been licking them and then putting them back into the bowl.

Or it could be some idiot has been spitting saliva-soaked walnuts into them.