How Rock Stars' Bad Behavior Makes Us Into Rock Stars.

We've been sitting at the railroad crossing for nearly a year now, fiddling with the car radio. Finally, the candy cane colored arms hoist themselves, and the caboose materializes out of the haze, signaling an end to the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Eleven.

I'm not going to sum up an entire year in one post. Two many tangents exist to avoid droning ad nauseum regarding all of the year's significant events, so I've decided to focus on the most important happenings—

Celebrity scandals.

I'm doing this for me, and I'm doing this for you, because I guarantee you'll feel better about yourself after reviewing some of the activities which made headlines during 2011, as tabulated by the most trusted name in journalism this side of NPR: starpulse.com.

10) Reality star Kim Kardashian announces the end of her seventy-two-day marriage to Kris "I make the scarecrow look like Steven Hawking" Humphries, after a star-studded multimillion-dollar television wedding.

Be happy for these kids, folks. And let them keep all the wedding gifts as tokens of our gratitude for not having children.

9) A highly motivated hacker releases nude photos obtained from Scarlett Johansson's cell phone.

Definitely an invasion of privacy, but a scandal? For Pete's sake, I'd trade in my forty-nine-year-old male body for her younger, female version tomorrow, accepting all ridicule and gender confusion for the opportunity to explore its wonders on evenings and weekends.

8) In another matrimonial shocker,  Playboy Playmate Crystal Harris called off her nuptials to ancient mogul Hugh Hefner just five days prior to their planned event, but keeping her engagement ring and placing it up for auction.

If I were Hef, I'd turn right around and post to EBay that bedazzled hemorrhoid donut she knitted me for my one-hundred-and-eighth birthday.

7) Demi Moore splits with her husband of six years, Ashton Kutcher, after learning that he engaged in unprotected sex with another woman...on the couple's anniversary, to boot!

Of all the lowdown, scumbag moves. According to Moore, Kutcher could have saved the marriage simply by using the custom-printed condoms she bought him which magically transform upon arousal from "I'm a bass" to "I'm a cheating dumbass."

6) Maria Shriver dumps hubby Arnold Shwarzenegger after discovering that his un-American activities have resulted in a prolonged dalliance and subsequent son with their long-time housekeeper.

Come on, Mr. Olympia. I realize you've spent countless thousands of hours in the gym honing that physique, but you should have devoted a little more time to the clean and jerk, if you know what I mean.

5) Charlie Sheen flips out and slaughters his sitcom cash cow, "Two and a Half Men," inventing a few new terms along the way.

I've taken some time to translate. "Winning" means "smoking a fist-sized rock. "Warlock" is a guy who smokes fist-sized rocks. "Tiger blood" is blood containing the contents of a fist-sized rock.

4) Miley Cyrus is photographed sucking a large bong toke.

Miley, your father is Billy Ray Cyrus. Brain cells should be as precious to you as a quaff of Pellegrino in the freaking Sahara.

3) Teeny bop pop star Justin Bieber is accused of fathering a child with a twenty-year-old fan.

Isn't testing for Bieber's paternity ability sort of like asking for the tattoo department of a Mormon bookstore?

2) Chris Brown, hip hopper extraordinaire, goes ballistic in his "Good Morning America" dressing room after being questioned about punching out girlfriend Rihanna in 2009, breaking glass and generally trashing the premises.

Classy move, Chris. What better way to show that you've changed your violent ways.

1) Lindsay Lohan, in between jail and rehab stints, manages to find time to pose for "Playboy," not once, but twice, due to a reshoot.

You go, Lin Lin. Always ahead of the curve, I've heard that you've made pasty, toothless and strung out the new healthy, organic look for 2012.

I guess that's it. Feel better about yourself now? I know I do.

I wish I could have presented this list to my wife a while back after asking her co-worker when the baby was due.

She wasn't pregnant.

Time for the 2011 Pondie Awards.

Hello, and welcome to the First Annual Pondie Awards.

Our staff has worked tirelessly in compiling this year's winners, and similarly to Pondie's wealthy yet emasculated second cousin Oscar, we believe that everyone deserves a trophy—you know, like T-ball.

Unfortunately, however, while many will stumble home from the after party, their pockets stuffed with mashed up pigs in a blanket, only one fortunate soul in each of our categories will claim this coveted award for his or her mantel or TV tray.

Without further ado, let's get to the victors, shall we?

In the category of "Politician Whose Pantsuit Makes Her Butt Look the Most Psychotic," the Pondie goes to Michele Bachmann, for asserting that the HPV vaccine causes mental retardation, global warming is fictitious and Jesus hates all gays except for her husband, Marcus. Congratulations, Michele.

Runners up in our next category include Scott Peterson, Charles Manson and Susan Smith, but this year's Pondie goes to O.J. Simpson in the category of "Oh, Cool. That's Right, You're Still in Prison."

The 2011 "Nastiest Way of Recycling a Nasty Thing to Try to Make it Less Nasty" Pondie is awarded to that thing McDonald's sells that has all the Big Mac ingredients inside a tortilla instead of a bun. Congrats on such forward thinking, McD's, and we can't wait for next year and the introduction of the Mango McRib Smoothie.

In the category of "Most Adept at Seizing a Moment of Silent Prayer in Front of 60,000 People to Thank Jesus For the Touchdown He Just Scored and Also His Awesomely Ripped Arms," the Pondie goes to Denver quarterback Tim Tebow. Kudos, Timbo. Thanks to your public displays of piety, those Muslims trying to tackle you don't stand a chance.

We actually have a three-way tie for our next prize. The Libyan, Egyptian and Tunisian people win the Pondie Award for "While the Rest of the World Watched Kim Kardashian's Ridiculous Nuptials, We Chose to Risk Our Lives So That Our Children Might Grow Up Free."

Justin Bieber wins in a close battle with the cast of Barnie and Rupert Murdoch to take home the trophy for "Least Likely to Be Able to Impregnate Someone." Who'd a thunk, Biebs!

Nominated for "Person Most of Us Would Like to Set on Fire, Starting at His Offending Area," the Pondie goes to Jerry Sandusky, who deserves to be free on bail about as much as a Strawberry Frosted Pop Tart deserves to be a fruit.

And finally, 2011 Pondie for "Stop Complaining About Your Stupid Problems—I Was Shot Through the Brain and Look at the Progress I'm Making" is awarded to Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Congresswoman, you inspire us all.

It looks like our show has run a bit long. We apologize and promise that next year, we'll nix FOX News on Ice.

Happy Holidays.

Playing Adam to New Year's Eve.

Okay, then. The stained dry erase board of another lame duck year is finally wiped clean.

As Dr. Faux, I mean Dr. Phil, is fond of barking at teenage mom meth addicts, it's time to "pull ourselves up by the bootstraps" (insert authoritative Texas drawl here), and move on into 2011.

I don't really consider myself middle-aged anymore, since it's improbable that I'll live to be ninety-six, so from here on out, I'd like to be labeled as "accumulaged." This is the period in my life where stuff begins building up: Christmas ornaments, computers, belly fat, trips to the bathroom. I've even imagined a way to promote this golden, new era—"Try the new Tim. Now with a third more prostate tissue!"

One of the benefits of witnessing my forty-ninth New Year is the slow mellowing of New Year's Eve expectations. As a young adult, we all expected to have the party of the year—to sing, to dance and when the ball drops, to passionately engulf the face of either your soul mate or whomever was closest at the time.

New Year's Eve, 1984, was my watershed party experience. I'd had a girlfriend for about a year-and-a-half, and things weren't going so well. She suggested getting dressed up and going to Pioneer Square in downtown Seattle to usher in the new year, shoulder-to-shoulder with throngs of drunken strangers. After that, we'd hop in a cab, basking in the glow of a re-kindled, re-dedicated relationship.

It looked good on paper, so I reluctantly agreed. From our earliest days together, this girl had tried her best to transform me into a GQ cover guy. She pressed hard to rid my wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans; a trip to campus meant checking my loafers to make sure the pennies hadn't slipped out, popping my collar and tying a pastel colored sweater around my shoulders. My friends had teased me relentlessly, but I had brushed them off, lamely contending that she was "improving" me. I do wish, however, that they hadn't run into me buying that blow dryer at the drugstore.

Anyway, yes, I now realize—red flags, all. Relationships shouldn't be contingent upon one person "fixing" the other. And even then, I felt like a buffoon as we rode the cab downtown. It was freezing cold, but I was firmly instructed not to deviate from the winning polo shirt/ torso wrap combo. By the end of the evening, I could no longer feel my nipples. I was afraid they may have simply broken off after bumping into someone, and I'd find them the next day, looking like little pieces of turkey jerky in the waistband of my Jockey for Hims.

We each did our best to pretend to have a good time, but I think we both realized the absurdity and futility of our situation.

That night twenty-six years ago, I vowed to never immerse myself among a mob in an attempt at manufacturing fun. By the following year, my girlfriend had been replaced by a companion who's stuck by me, in the comfort of my own home, every New Year's Eve since:

Dick Clark.