Midnight hits. Fireworks cough into the sky. Someone misses the countdown because they’re filming it vertically. And before the smoke clears, before hope even gets its shoes on, the jokes begin again.
Uncle Geoff fires first. He always does.
“SEE YOU NEXT YEAR.”
He leans back. Mission complete. A man who has trained his whole life for one sentence and absolutely nailed the timing. The room reacts with the traditional response: forced smiles, polite groans, and at least one person whispering, for fuck’s sake into a paper cup.
But this year, something has shifted.
The kids have joined in.
The next generation. Raised on irony, TikTok, and memes that died before breakfast. And somehow, inexplicably, they’ve decided this is funny again.
“I haven’t done a poo since last year.”
“I haven’t eaten since last year.”
“I haven’t slept since last year.”
“I haven’t emotionally processed anything since last year.”
“I haven’t been happy since last year.”
“I haven’t forgiven Dad since last year.”
They’re everywhere. Twelve-year-olds. Teenagers. Grown adults who should know better. People delivering these lines like open-mic comedians testing new material that died in 1998.
Each joke arrives with the same smug pause. That tiny beat where they wait for laughter, validation, or absolution. The pause stretches. Time slows. The year is young, but already tired.
And Uncle Geoff? He’s glowing.
Because this is how legacies are born. Not through wisdom or kindness or love, but through low-effort temporal observations. He watches the kids recycle his material and thinks, I taught them that.
The jokes keep coming. All night. All day.
At breakfast:
“Haven’t brushed my teeth since last year.”
At lunch:
“Haven’t made good decisions since last year.”
At dinner:
“Haven’t updated my personality since last year.”
By January 3rd, someone will still say it. Quietly. To themselves. In a mirror. And feel a flicker of shame.
This is the truth we don’t talk about on New Year’s Eve: the calendar flips, but the humour doesn’t evolve. It just gets passed down, like a cursed family heirloom. A dad joke without a dad. A rite of passage no one consented to.
We pretend it’s harmless. We say, “Oh, it’s just a joke.” But deep down, we know.
No one escapes it.
Not the adults.
Not the kids.
Not even you, reading this, already planning to say one of these lines ironically, which is how it gets you.
The year rolls in. The jokes roll on.
And somewhere, Uncle Geoff smiles.
See you next year.
