Folks, it’s your ol’ pal Dotti here, hunkered down in my Florida bunker with a bottle of champagne spiked with Bigfoot tears and a crystal ball that’s fogged up worse than Times Square after the ball drops. The world’s spinnin’ into 2026 faster than a chupacabra on a Red Bull bender—aliens crashin’ parties, Bat Boy ringin’ in the new year with Elvis, and half the planet resolvin’ to lose weight while stuffin’ their faces with leftover fruitcake. Y’all flooded my mailbox with New Year’s Eve woes hotter than a UFO exhaust pipe. Let’s pop these corks and get to the misery!
THE DUMPING
DEAR DOTTI,
My boyfriend says he’s takin’ me to the fanciest New Year’s Eve bash in New York City this year. But last week, I caught him whisperin’ sweet nothins to a glowin’ orb in the backyard that looked suspiciously like an alien probe. Now he’s talkin’ about “midnight abductions” and how the ball drop is really a cover for extraterrestrials harvestin’ our resolutions. Should I dump him before the countdown, or is this just guys bein’ guys?
– Starstruck in Staten Island
Dear Starstruck
Honey, if your man’s courtin’ a glowin’ orb, you’re already third wheel in a interstellar love triangle! Ditch the zero and grab a hero—preferably one without tentacles. But hey, if the probe’s got a spaceship, tag along for the ride. Free trip to Mars beats freezin’ your butt off in Times Square watchin’ Ryan Seacrest pretend he’s excited. Just pack extra tinfoil panties for protection. Happy New Year, you magnificent abductee!
THE NORMALING
DEAR DOTTI,
Every New Year’s Eve, my family insists on watchin’ the ball drop together, but this year my uncle swears Bat Boy’s gonna hijack it and turn it into a giant echolocation device to summon his bat brethren. He’s stockpilin’ garlic and sonar jammers, and now the whole party’s turnin’ into a cryptid apocalypse prep session. How do I get ’em to just drink and kiss at midnight like normal folks?
– Baffled in Brooklyn
Dear Baffled,
Oh sugar, your uncle’s onto somethin’! Bat Boy’s been plottin’ that stunt since 1992—Weekly World News exclusive! But garlic? That’s for vampires, you pinhead. Tell Uncle Batty to switch to mothballs; those winged freaks hate ’em. As for the party, spike the eggnog with truth serum (or cheap vodka) and force a group hug at midnight. If Bat Boy shows, invite him in—he’s a heckuva dancer and brings his own cave guano dip. Wingin’ it into 2026, baby!
THE BIGFOOTIN’
DEAR DOTTI,
I’m plannin’ a quiet New Year’s Eve at home with my hubby, but Bigfoot keeps crashin’ our backyard bonfire, stealin’ the marshmallows and leavin’ giant footprints in the snow. Last year he howled “Auld Lang Syne” off-key till 3 a.m.! How do I Sasquatch-proof my celebration without hurtin’ his fuzzy feelings?
– Squatched in Seattle
Dear Squatched,
Listen up, furball lover: Bigfoot ain’t crashin’—he’s your uninvited plus-one with benefits! That hairy hunk’s lonely this time of year; all his yeti pals are hibernatin’. Set out a separate marshmallow trough labeled “For Cryptids Only” and blast some Elvis tunes—he can’t resist shakin’ his big ol’ booty to “Blue Christmas.” If he still howls, join in! Nothin’ rings in the new year like a Bigfoot duet. Just don’t kiss him at midnight; that beard’s a fire hazard.
THE WEIGHTING
DEAR DOTTI,
My resolution is to finally lose these extra 50 pounds, but every New Year’s Eve I black out on champagne and wake up wrestlin’ a pizza box. This year, aliens beamed down diet tips sayin’ “Earth carbs are poison—switch to space kelp!” Should I listen to the little green men or stick to Weight Watchers?
– Flabby in Florida
Dear Flabby,
Space kelp? Those lyin’ Martians just want you skinny so you’re easier to probe! Stick to Earth grub, but swap the pizza for deep-fried Bigfoot toes—they’re low-carb and plentiful this season. As for blackin’ out: Tie yourself to the couch at 11:59 and let hubby feed you grapes like a Roman emperor. Resolutions are for suckers anyway—embrace the fluff! You’re perfect as a plus-size probe magnet. Cheers to a chubby 2026!
There ya have it, my doomed darlings—Dotti’s dispensed enough wisdom to survive another lap around the sun. The ball’s droppin’, aliens are landin’, and Bat Boy’s probably stealin’ the show as we speak. Got more holiday horrors quirkier than a werewolf’s hangover? Beam ’em to editor@weeklyworldnews.com. Remember: In this crazy cosmos, the best resolution is to stay weird, stay wasted, and stay away from glowin’ orbs!XOXO,
Dotti
(P.S. If the world ends at midnight, blame the Mayans—they’re always late!)
