Of Birthays, Cake, Jesus, Little People and the Prospect of Hell

Birthdays are a reminder, not that we are getting older, but that we are growing farther away from the expulsion from our mother's uterus and other lady parts. There are some days I just want to get back in there. Wait... no... I don't want to feed my mother's clam my bracciole, but rather go back to the simplicity of when we were just born and everything was done for us. Nothing makes a birthday more sober than responsibility. All the things we have to be doing and need to do for our life to go on. I'll tell you what helps make a birthday better. Cake. Ice Cream cake to be exact. Do not waste my time with angel food and or anything of the like. Do not even look at me if you want fresh fruit involved in a birthday cake. It better be frozen and filled with chocolate crunchies separating two separate but equally important layers of delicious, creamy ice cream flavor. If it was up to me, my wedding cake would've had 12 Fudgie the Whales artfully tiered on one another. Some Fudgies would have had on a tuxedo while some a wedding dress (with veil). It would have been beautiful.

I just turned 27 and, while I'm happy in love, I'm not totally in love with how my time is spent. Jesus had it right... he waited until he was 30 before taking on responsibility. Then again, he only lived to 33½ and was allegedly in much better shape than me. Maybe I have only 6½ years left. Considering the way I eat and remain sedentary, that actually wouldn't be so bad. But what have I done with my time? We all waste so much time working and providing for ourselves and family that we lose out. Or are we working so we don't lose out? Either way, I want to have an adventure. I want to find a town like in Footloose and teach them how to dance and not be afraid of change. I want to run for political office and make promises I have no intention of keeping. I want to defend a small third-world nation's water supply and a horrible flesh-eating illness by wearing a plastic bracelet and a ribbon. I want to honk because 1. I am horny, 2. Jesus is my Co-pilot, 3. I hate reading bumper stickers, 4. I want to see your middle finger. I want to drive cross-country and eat at every greasy spoon I come across. I want to be in a movie that shows my bare, hairy ass for the world to take in and enjoy/become ill. I want to have sex with a midget. Sorry, that was not right. I want to have sex with a little person. My time frame has sadly already closed on that one (love you my beautiful wife!). Now I know what your thinking: what if my wife loses her legs, would that count? No. It wouldn't. I now want to have sex with a legless woman... in a wheel chair. I want to avoid hell. Maybe I should just be happy with my ice cream cake....

Happy birthday to me.

Put That Cookie Down!

I bought cookies on the way home from work tonight for my wife to bring to work tomorrow. I know they are not for me, but they kept calling to me and I finally caved in. I stole one and as to not get caught I ran to the bathroom for privacy to enjoy my stolen booty: one magical sprinkled sugar cookie. As I was about to take my first bite I looked up in the mirror and the guy looking back was not happy with me and gave me an earful:

Put that cookie down! What do you think you're doing? Honestly, have you seen yourself lately? What do you think this is, this thing philosophers and parole officers refer to as life? Do you think it's some sort-of festival that you can merely traipse through gobbling down every sort of snack food that throws itself at the feet of your taste buds? Well, friend (and soon, if you continue in this manner, I will no longer be your friend), that is not at all what it is. You cannot, you must not, you stepped in something and you will not continue on in this manner.And have you seen yourself lately? What in the red leather/yellow leather, toy boat and other vocal warm-ups commonly practiced by actors prior to a performance do you think you are getting yourself into? It's people like you who make a person like me feel compelled to say things about a person like you. Your physical appearance is so despicable that your friends, co-workers and relatives have begun whispering your name in conversation even though everything else they say is said in regular conversational tones.

Don't bite that cookie! Heavens to Betsy and this tray to the couple at table thirty-seven! You are going to find yourself clutching a one way ticket to a place that accommodates people who enjoy eating sweet things when they should be eating apples, and I don't mean the kind of apples that sit in front of you in chemistry class and why couldn't she be your lab partner instead of that Benny jackass who wouldn't know the periodic table representation of oxygen if it fell out of bed in the middle of the night and began crying for him.

Face it, you've gotten crumbs everywhere: in the couch, in the computer monitor, in the bed, here in the bathroom, in the sink, in the ottoman, in the still of the night, in the wonder years and in the observatory with the noose. It seems that the only solution is to cut off your hands and sew your mouth shut. Alright, well, perhaps I spoke too hastily and there are more humanitarian solutions to the problem. We will all have to get together as responsible, respectable citizens and discuss a fair and just and just a little to the left, oh, I think you got it, solution that benefits us all and doesn't make such a mess of the drapes whenever the wind blows.But for now, please put that cookie down... and remember to put the seat down.