Our New Year's Resolutions

Imagine our surprise, when finally awakening from a holiday bender, naked, crusted with confetti, and spooning with an old man wearing a tattered 2009 sash while a newborn baby wails in a nearby bassinet, that the New Year is actually upon us, bringing with it that annual call for the reformation of our self-destructive ways. That's right: It's New Year's Resolutions time. Sure, we could scribble these pledges on some paper and tuck it away in a desk drawer, ensuring our moral failures will only be known to us. Just like we do every January. But in the spirit of fresh starts and the breaking of unhealthy patterns, this time we're going to document them, here in public, where literally dozens and dozens of web-crawling enforcers can savagely bludgeon us with the comment-section cudgel to make sure we don't backslide into the bad habits that marred the previous year. So, after the jump, our resolutions for 2010, in hopes we'll be able to better serve your Hollywood-related needs going forward in 2010:

Whenever someone rounds up the number of Warren Beatty's reported sexual conquests from 12,775 to an even 13,000, we're not going to begrudge them those extra 225 encounters. Beatty probably picked up the difference in the hazy, out-of-control year following Shampoo, anyway.

When Avatar assumes its inevitable position as the second-highest-grossing film of all time, we resolve to paint every inch of our body blue, grow a braid that dangles all the way down to the base of our now-azure buttocks, and then attempt to tie the split-ends at the tip of that braid to the mane of the first six-legged horse we see.*

(*Under the influence of psilocybin mushrooms, a standard four-legged horse will seem to transform into the more Pandora-friendly six-legged configuration.)

We resolve to take a drink each time Ricky Gervais somehow comes off as charming while cutting the legs out from under a visibly drunk Golden Globes attendee by shrugging, giggling like a naughty imp, then claiming he "doesn't know how these fancy Hollywood parties work."

The next time we see The Hurt Locker (coughcough sendaBluRayscreener coughcough), we resolve to soil our underthings during just one of the movie's three tensest moments (The First Bomb Defusing, The Third Bomb Defusing, The Failed Defusing Of An Entire Shelf Of Ticking Count Chocula Boxes), besting our embarrassing three-for-three performance of last summer.

We resolve to take another drink when cameras cut to a reaction shot of a just-insulted Golden Globes attendee dismissively waving a hand toward the stage, mouthing, "Oh, go on, you cheeky devil!"

To help multiplex owners in their quest to keep their theaters a relevant option in a world full of increasingly appealing entertainment-delivery choices, we will wear 3D glasses everywhere we go this year, answering any questions about our eyewear with, "Why, we're off to the cinema to immerse ourselves in three living, breathing dimensions of Hollywood magic! Won't you smash your iPhone to bits and join us?"

We'll only call the Hollywood Foreign Press Association a "tasteless swarm of starf*cking, buffet-decimating Euro-locusts" once during the entire Golden Globes telecast.

If someone should mention the Resurgent Sandra Bullock's Best Actress chances for mega-super-hit The Blind Side, we resolve not to petulantly unfurl the All About Steve one-sheet we've been carrying around just in case this particular subject came up.

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