The ladies don’t have to be naked when I meet them, but it would be nice if they were naked at some point shortly thereafter. As is the way of the world, the time until nakedness is usually directly influenced by the attractiveness of said woman. I’ve compiled a simple formula to help people know how long it should take for a lady I’ve met to get naked:

 
age – height in centimeters x number of nipples = hours until nakedness

 
Some readers might say that formula is a bit flawed, as a 20-year-old lady who is 5’3″ with two nipples would be required to get naked 280 hours before meeting me, while an elderly midget with three nipples would be required to wait many, many hours before nakedness was allowed.

I fail to see a problem with these results.

Some readers might ask why I don’t set a goal of 100% more naked ladies. After all, most New Year’s resolutions are just empty wishes anyway. Why not wish big? Well, I chose 27 percent because I’m not in my 20s anymore, so 100 percent more naked ladies might very well kill me. Worse yet, an increase of that magnitude could cause me to become immune to the joy of naked ladies, which I imagine would be kind of like becoming allergic to ice cream.

Some readers might look at my column photo and say a 27 percent increase in sexy naked ladies is a bit too ambitious. Fear not, uncomplimentary reader. In order to make this resolution easier, I’ve also decided that these naked ladies don’t need to be particularly attractive. As a 30-year-old temp who has been living off unemployment for the past year, I’m probably due to lower my standards a bit anyway.

I do have some limits, though. The naked ladies must be at least 18, but must not have been alive while Lyndon Johnson was in office. They don’t have to be thin, but they must not be heavy enough to cut off my breathing during foreplay. They must live nearby, but they cannot be one of my relatives. Also, I’d prefer if said ladies did not have AIDS.

Sorry if that last one seems discriminatory.

I’d like to note that strippers do not count as naked ladies. Well, they do, but not for the purposes of this New Year’s resolution. As the old saying goes, if you have to pay for it, you probably don’t deserve it. This rule, of course, will be thrown completely out the window when December 2010 rolls around and I’ve scored 98 percent fewer naked ladies than last year.

Some readers may wonder what my backup resolution is, in the logical event that a curmudgeonly hermit like me – whose last exciting night out was a trip to Rite Aide to buy a sinus rinse kit – doesn’t succeed in getting more naked ladies than usual.

I’d say my backup resolution is to eat an entire 48-ounce jar of grape jelly in one sitting. I’d like to do this at a city council meeting while wearing a tuxedo. I’d bring along a friend, also dressed in a tuxedo, and whenever councilmen or the mayor tried to ask me a question or comment on what I was doing, my friend would respond by informing them that I was unable to talk because I was eating grape jelly. When I was done eating all the jelly and licking the inside of the jar clean, I’d begin playing the iCarly theme song on a harmonica, if such a thing is possible. I’m not sure if it’s possible because I have no clue what the hell iCarly is.

My backup resolution is no naked lady, but fortunately, grape jelly is almost as delicious.

The honor is given annually to the best young journalist in the Twin Ports area. Former winners include various nieces and nephews of Dennis Anderson. The News Tribune wishes to stress that the award is based purely on writing ability, not quality of character or moral fiber.

Mainly known for being devastatingly handsome, there are actually few columnists in worse physical condition than Ryan. Medical tests show that nearly 97% of the sucrose in Ryan’s body at any given moment comes from beer he’s consumed. The liquid literally fuels the columnist’s entire immune system. Doctors say if Ryan were to ever stop drinking, his kidneys would dissolve and his white blood cells would begin attacking his own brain.

“I’ll attack your brain, poindexter!” said Ryan, responding violently to our reporter’s description of his medical condition. The award-winning columnist then vomited and soiled himself simultaneously.

Ryan recently broke all previous Northland records by having his stomach pumped 14 times in a six month period. During that time, he also temporarily lost vision in his right eye. Ryan says this didn’t hinder him as a columnist.

“You don’t need two eyes to see Duluth’s full of garbage,” slurred Ryan, pausing to give News Tribune publisher Ken Browall the finger before continuing. “Hell, you don’t even need to live in Duluth to report on the garbage. You can just e-mail your columns in from an entirely different state. My pants smell like chickens.”

Ryan then punched a lamp and kissed arts & entertainment reporter Christa Lawler on the lips, causing her to call the police.

Ryan is well acquainted with local law enforcement. The authorities were called to the Reader Weekly offices hundreds of times this year, mostly to have Ryan restrained while interns removed all the curse words from his weekly columns. Even the weary officers grew to appreciate – or at least tolerate – Ryan’s antics.

“He makes it pretty easy on us,” said Officer Steve Waterson. “He’s weak and not too hard to take down, and he doesn’t run because he usually has to go to the bathroom. He tries to kiss us sometimes, but he’s usually clean-shaven, so we don’t mind.”

Speaking at the ceremony honoring Ryan, Reader Weekly publisher Bob Boone said he wasn’t surprised by Ryan’s success, in the same sense that he wasn’t surprised by the success of Kim Kardashian, Spencer Pratt, or Hitler. Ryan smiled proudly through these comparisons. Boone then compared Ryan to Tucker Max, at which point Ryan produced a small switchblade and stabbed Boone in the knee.

“Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl, but she doesn’t have a lot to say!” screeched Ryan as outdoors columnist Sam Cook wrestled the knife from his hands. “Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl, but she changes from day to day! You hear me, Boone!? I love objects shaped like sweaters!”

“Please tell me again why we’re giving him this prep columnist award?” asked Cook. “I mean, doesn’t prep stand for preparatory school, as in high school? Paul Ryan graduated from college eight years ago.”

At this point, drunken interruptions had lengthened the ceremony to three hours, and it was decided that everyone should just go home. Ryan left with his paper certificate and complimentary $15 gift card to Younkers department store, and the News Tribune offices were locked for the night.

Outside the building, a homeless man attempting to consume an orange parking cone gave what was perhaps the best description of Ryan’s column, and the role it played in people’s lives.

“Yeah, I read his column sometimes when I’m waiting for my meth dealer to show up,” said the homeless man. “I hope he keeps writing for the Reader Weekly. No matter how rough my life gets, it’s nice to pick up the paper every week and see that there’s someone who’s more of a loser than I am.”