The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day Eleven

On the eleventh day of Gheorghemas,
Big Gheorghe gave to me

Eleven Months of Elevating the Art of Blogging
Ten Years of Dipshits
Nine (six, really) goats goatating
Eight Autographs Showing How Sad My Childhood Was
Seven Books for Reading
Six Vinyl Discs
Five golden (Cream Yellow, really) cylinders for Squeaky
Four players playing
Three Nutty Squirrels
Two Chilean bangers (literally)
And a British lass slingin’ hot meat

Back by popular demand, y'all, our year-end review of the batshit crazy editorial calendar we managed to fling together. You already know we dropped 193 posts, but as with every year I do this, I'm pretty darn impressed with some of what we did. Nice work, ladies and gentlemen.

On with it, then, starting, as one does, in January.

We eased into the year with a couple of Wrenball posts, then Whitney went hard, advocating for legal shrooms.

He then followed with two more posts in a row. What got into Whitney in January? I think you know the answer.

Heffalump!

What car would Dave drive? Spot. On.

February came next, as it does.

Here's Dave Fairbank's music collection.

Sheriff Callie's Wild West imitates life.

Tinder, but for cows.

I know some people with Wikipedia entries.

After February, there was March. As you'd expect.

Zman shot the sheriff, didn't go to jail.

Zman endorsed Mayor Pete, too.

They fucking fired Tony Shaver. Not over it.

RIP Carmine Persico.

I'm a damn hero.

Very, very Teej content.

April was next. No surprise there.

What car should the Teej drive? A goddamn sui generis one.

Minneapolis travel guide.

Squirrel camp!

FOGTB Lecky released an album.

Fairbank gave us a reading assignment. Gotta lot of pushy Daves around here.

May, as expected, followed.

Oh, brother.

Squirrel-related audio up your ass followed immediately by whimsy up your ass. Ass week!



Gheorghe explains the democratic presidential primary.

The president* is a goddamn disgrace.

Abe hung up his top hat.

Oddly, July was next. Kidding. It was June.

My kid can dance.

More Fairbank book reviews to make us feel shitty about the world. Thanks, Dave!

Allagash!

In retrospect, Whitney published a ton of music-related content this year. He wrote about 1989 here.

July really did happen now.

Dude bought a monorail and made it into cabins. My man.



Hey, baby, it's the Fourth of July. For good and for bad.

zfoodporn.

zdadtravel, parts one, deux, and three.

We wrote some good shit about dadding this year. You'd think we were maturing. you'd be wrong. But this from TR was cool.

TR also turned us on to Marcus King. MVP of July, that TR.

RIP Sweetpea.

Our resident Mike Love fan reviewed the douchebag's latest album.

Allagash! With pictures!

August was hot as fuck. Also next as fuck.

Teej is (has) a star.

That pie is poisonnnnn.

We ran back an all-timer in honor of the Iowa State Fair.

Speaking of state fairs, I made my maiden voyage to Minnesota's.

September, not as hot, just as next.

RIP Lud and Scoop.

And RIP Daniel Johnston.

Baby Yaz gave us the feels.

Our Official Rugby World Cup Preview had length, but not much accuracy. Kinda like Whitney off the tee.

In 987 words, zman made the case for Trump's guilt. Had we not entered Bizarro World three years ago, this would be all she wrote.

Tim Kaine sings the hits.



October, predictably, was next in line.

I haven't done the math, but I'd bet good American money that TR's posted the most about random surgical procedures here in these parts.

In a similar vein, I'm not sure anyone's done as deep a dive on an SNL skit as TR did here. Big start to the month.

The Cowboy Motherfucking Cafe, y'all.

I went to Spain, made one small post about it, tried to write more, ran out of steam.

Finally, at long last, November.

We previewed the Wrens' season, saying that 10 wins and a 9th-place finish in the CAA would be counted as a good year. They won their 10th game last night by hammering the league's preseason number one on the road. As always, I don't know a damn thing.

ANOTHER BILLS/BROWNS PREVIEW!

My kid's gonna leave me soon. Not prepared for that.

Our man in the OBX explained the desertification of American news. Sobering shit, this.

Guess who wrote about perineum sunning?

Apropos, I think, that we ended our fiscal year with This Decade in Wrenball.

And so, like sand through an hourglass, so goes another year in our lives. The 15th year of publishing here included our fair share of dipshittery, sober-minded exposition (not very much, but enough that the FCC let us keep our license), filler, and good, old-fashioned camaraderie.

God Bless us every one. Here's to another 15.