Good news everyone: this is our last blog post for the year! Difficult as it is for some of you, our admiring readers, to believe, we don’t actually sit crossed-leg on the writing table, smoking profoundly on a kick-ass pipe, while the Good Lord inspires us with all these awesome posts.  Hell, no! We work at these things, bro! These freaking blogs are actually brow-sweating work, just slightly below being forced to watch a Nollywood video for 12 hours without a toilet break.

And by the time you watch the 18th pre-movie trailer, you will know true fear.

And that’s why over the months, we’ve been chuffed at your appreciation, admiration and even the rare insults too. In fact, we wake up on mid-nights just to re-read your comments and count the page views one by one.

“No time for porn, man. Next post is tomorrow.”

That said, today’s post, in the usual end-of-the-year fashion, is a quick introspection and an opportunity to ponder on all those missed calls we had during the year from unknown phone numbers. Who called us? Why did they call us?  Would they ever call back? Was it some new business or a secret admirer? We may never know the answers to these most intricate of life’s questions. But what we know for sure is this: for those of you who have been brave enough to keep checking out our weekly editions—congrats—the size of the FG’s recurrent expenditure got nothing on your balls! And that’s even more true for you, ladies!

Your awe inspiring balls are the very cornerstone of this blog.

Unfortunately, though, your continued approval of our blog, dear readers, means our divinely inspired mission to annoy the hell out of every Nigerian, until we get banned in not less than 30 states, is becoming less and less realistic. Accordingly, this increase in page views is very sad news for all of us here. However, while we think up new strategies to get you raving mad until you smash your internet devices against the wall as you scream for our heads, we will continue to bring you our best combination of polite sarcasm and social irreverence. Meanwhile, our lesson has been learned: Nigerians have a high tolerance for boolsheet.

It’s like:”Hey you, Boolsheet, you want to use my toothbrush, and sleep with my wife? Sure, why not?”

This tolerance for the most insipid and transparent of political, social and religious lies is more painful than a triple cockscrew wound up the anal cavities. It is even more painful this year, 2012; because, when in January, the country’s masses and not-quite-masses came together to protest the dumbfuckery of Goodluck Jonathan’s fuel subsidy removal, there was, quite almost, the possibility of a welcome change in the affairs of the country.

Also, the possibility of electing us an awesome fire-jumping president.

For a brief, but clear moment, the Nigerian people actually held political power—and the machinery of government was clearly submissive. But that moment was lost as soon as it came, because, when you have power without a plan, you will either lose the power or lose your life. So we lost the power, no thanks to the trickery and cowardice of the unions—as well as our own clueless stance—and went back to our freaking everyday lives: solidly grounded on Omotola’s Twitter verification and D’banj’s “Oyato” fiasco.

“Occupy Nigeria is sooo old school, bro. Karen Igho got slapped! That’s fresh gist!”

And what were the costs of January? What were the gains? Some people died, the rest of us live on.  In retrospect, the protests could easily have been an imaginative  and adventurous post on Omojuwa or Ekekee for all the difference it has made so far. The union leaders are alive and well, Diezani is yet to die zanily or otherwise, fuel has been scarce for several months, the reform in electric power is on paper only, Jonathan has publicly ascribed the January protests to the work of paid brigands, Abati’s apostasy has become even more sinful and Karen Igho is still getting slapped by security guards.

“What? Are you going to blame me for that too?”

Of course, as we’ve pointed out before, we are also to blame for a lot of our woes. December is almost over, and a new January is around the corner. The oracles have been evasive on where this country is headed or how it should even be headed. And maybe, that’s the problem—maybe there are no fucking oracles and maybe we hold the key to the next year in our own hands.  And like all those missed calls from unknown numbers, maybe you shouldn’t just wait for a call back—sometimes you gotta go out there, stalk and kidnap a phone company employee, torture them till they agree to trace the unknown number for you, and then you find out who the hell was calling you. It’s your call, baby. But it’s also too much work (like these blog posts), so while we sincerely wish you Merry Holidays and a Happy New Year, we are quite sure we’ll be back on this blog together, in the New Year, yarning the same old gist.