Ladies and gentlemen, set your DVR and/or Betamax to “record,” because this coming Tuesday (Feb 22) is a “very special episode” of Glee! (Record scratch.) “Hold on there, Wm.™ Steven Hump-Me!” I hear you cry. “Isn’t every episode of Glee a ‘very special episode?’” Well… okay! You have a point! Glee is basically the Blossom of this millennium—except with more explicit teen sex, gay bullying, and addictions to unnecessary mash-ups.

Valentine’s Day is this week! Which is why I’m taking this opportunity to advise you on what you’re doing WRONG in your romantic relationships. Just think of me like Dr. Phil—except I’m not pear-shaped, I don’t wear a pedophile mustache, I don’t talk like Deputy Dawg, I don’t offer people the absolute worst advice in the world, and, generally speaking, I’m not a despicable human being who deserves to be kicked in the junk, trampled by bulls, and shot out of a cannon into the feces-filled heinie-hole of Ann Coulter. [Insider tip: I DON’T LIKE DR. PHIL VERY MUCH.]

Ummm… WELL? Are you just going to sit there ogling my structurally perfect ass or are you going to wish me a happy anniversary? THAT’S CORRECT! This week, I celebrate ten glorious years of disparaging the idiot sport of football, and in particular the SUPER BOWL (which will attempt to bore the shit out of me once again on Fox, Sun Feb 6, 3:30 pm).

Yes, it seems like only yesterday when I started writing repetitive fanatical columns about this utterly useless national event, ranting on and on like a mouth-foaming, meth-addicted Andy Rooney trying to fathom the difference between e-mail and Twitter. For example, this is what I said in 2005:

Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll admit that running a network may not be the easiest thing to do—BUT MY LIFE STINKS, TOO, YA KNOW!! It’s not exactly easy spending entire days sprawled on a filthy couch, clothed in oddly stained underpants, surrounded by empty liquor bottles and half-eaten Totino’s Pizza Rolls while half-consciously flipping through hundreds of TV shows per hour. See? I’m doing MY part! It’s those networks! They’re the lazy bastards!

World travel: I’d prefer to do something else, thankyouverymuch! There are those who say, “Travel broadens the mind as well as the soul,” and to those people I say, “APPLE CRAP!!” While I’ll admit there are certain upsides to world travel (easier access to illegal pharmaceuticals, totally insane strip bars, more enthusiastic prostitutes), there are far more downsides (diarrhea, indecipherable languages, diarrhea, constantly running into Germans, diarrhea, non-subtitled movies, diarrhea, Communism, diarrhea, sores that won’t go away, diarrhea, an absence of Totino’s frozen pizzas, diarrhea, being gored by a bull, diarrhea, didgeridoos, diarrhea, didgeridoos).

Let me begin this column with a little-bitty reminder: American Idol DID NOT discover Justin Bieber. However, it did discover Lee DeWyze. “Who’s Lee DeWyze?” you ask. EXACTLY. (For those playing at home, Lee DeWyze was the season nine winner of American Idol. If you’re also asking “Who’s Justin Bieber?” then you need to go back to digging the Werther’s out of your dentures, grampy, because Justin Bieber is only the TRUE idol of America, the world, and the GODDAMN UNIVERSE! And anyone who says differently is gonna be digging my size 10 Fluevog out of their testicles!)

Dear superheroes of the world: Let’s talk “fashion,” shall we? Perhaps it hasn’t been brought to your attention, but you look like a goddamn idiot. As I see it, you have only one job: BEATING THE CRAP OUT OF CRIMINALS. However, the uniform you’ve chosen to accomplish this task seems somewhat counterintuitive. For example, would a ballerina dress like a Chuck E. Cheese mascot? No. Would a construction worker wear ass-less chaps? Again, no—unless you’re talking about my most recent New Year’s party. So bearing this in mind, why do superheroes insist on dressing like a Jazzercize video from 1982?

Dear Readers: It has been brought to my attention that I occasionally say some really dumb things. And yet? Instead of allowing myself to be depressed by this oft-repeated opinion, I’ve decided to celebrate my dumbness (in the same way the Tea Party does) by spotlighting the absolute dumbest, most ridiculously stupid—and sometimes willfully dangerous—things I said in this column from the year 2010. (Please note that the following dumb quotations are provided entirely without context, in order to further spotlight what an idiot I am. Here’s to a much brainier 2011!)—yer always pal, Wm.™ Steven Hump-Me.

ATTENTION: There are some serious problems with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And for those of you who are still reading, I’m going to elucidate on those problems (and how they can be corrected) in three… two… one… GO!

1) Rudolph is totes creepy. Naturally, I’m talking about the Rankin/Bass creepy wooden puppet version of Rudolph (available on DVD and permanently seared into your brain). All the characters in these Rankin/Bass productions are tiny walking nightmares, whose mouths refuse to move at the proper speed, and jerk around like they have epilepsy. Christmas is a time to be thinking about GETTING PRESENTS, YO! Not flopping around on the ground while a total stranger tries to shove his wallet in your mouth.

See, here’s the thing: I want to be a millionaire, but I don’t want to do what’s necessary to become a millionaire. What follows are eight things one can do to become a millionaire:

(1) Make at least one million dollars—perhaps by working for it. BOOOOOO!!!! Did Donald Trump “work” for his million dollars? I doubt that very much.

Do not mark your calendar! On Thursday, December 9, at 10:00 p.m. on ABC, Barbara Walters will be revealing her choice for the “10 Most Fascinating People of 2010.” (Though she’s revealed only eight so far.) Naturally, her choices are a sopping condom full of diaper gravy, while mine are infinitely more awesome. Let’s compare:

What is UP with those Kardashian people? You know who I’m talking about, right? The stars of that inexplicably popular show called Keeping Up with the Kardashians (E!, running almost constantly)? Now, according to the internet (because I’m too angry and superior to watch the show myself) Keeping Up with the Kardashians supposedly stars Kim Kardashian, who according to Wikipedia, has done absolutely NOTHING for the entirety of her life. Seriously! She has done N-O-T-H-I-N-G!!

I’m through using Craigslist, you guys! However, I’ll admit that Craigslist works just fine if you’re trying to sell a lawnmower but secretly want to be sodomized and hacked apart by an escaped serial killer. I’m sorry to break the news, but people on Craigslist are just too freaky!

Don’t get me wrong—I like sports. I just don’t like the sports everyone else seems so crazy about. I don’t like basketball (AKA the “sport of fools”), but I do like office chair bowling (where you hide in the corner of your office, and when someone walks in, you sling your roll-y chair at them as fast as you can in an attempt to knock them off their feet—extra points if you crack their femur!). I also don’t like football (AKA the “sport of meatheads”) but I do like genital Xeroxing. Now some people claim that genital Xeroxing is not a sport—but those people have never coerced their officemates into seeing how many genitals can be Xeroxed in 30 seconds (our office record is 27—TOP THAT, MICROSOFT!).

As you may have noticed, we had an election last week! And while this particular election may not have turned out exactly as I would’ve liked, I’ve decided NOT to hurl myself face first into a rusty electric wood chipper. As my slightly insane and perpetually inebriated Aunt Wanda used to say, “When the world hands you lemons, make half a glass of lemonade—then fill the rest up with vodka. Drink it, take off your bra, swing it around your head, and scream at the world, ‘Fawk YOU, world, and fawk your fawking lemons! Check out these tits!’”

People often ask, “Hey, Wm.™ Steven Hump-Me! What is the secret of your success?” Well, that’s a complicated question: How did I—a barely literate narcissist and sex addict born in the rabid goat-infested mountains of Lithuania—rise to the lofty position of America’s most beloved television columnist? Well, frankly… I have YOU to thank.

I’d like you to stop whatever you’re doing right now, and deeply inhale the inside of my pants. Now: what do you smell? Perhaps… nutmeg? Maybe a touch of lavender? The lingering scent of last night’s sex sweat mixed with a trace of Axe Body Spray? Okay, so tell me this: What’s missing? CORRECT! Poop. There is not the slightest scent of poop inside my trousers. And NO, this is NOT a good thing!