Happy Birthday to Me!
Today I turned 33 years old. Whoopee shit!
There have been those well-wishers who relish in trying to get me to believe that turning 33 years old is some kind of special occasion since it’s a “double digit” birthday. Huh? Perhaps if you’re a multiple of eleven you may be excited, or say, a porn star to whom “double digits” might be a little more, shall we say, stimulating; but to me “double digits” means “Snake Eyes” – and that doesn’t sound too fucking special or lucky to me!
I mean, I already feel fucked enough that I don’t need any additional double digit finger-banging courtesy of life in general. The only double digits that I give two shits about today are the two fingers of whiskey in my glass and the double figure count of grams of fat that I’ll be packing onto my ass after each of my extra-sized slices of Duncan Hines ‘Deep Double Chocolate Fudge’ birthday cake that I baked myself to celebrate.
To cap off the celebrations this evening for my 33 years of accumulated experience in this lifetime, I’ll smother myself face first in the cake remains after lapsing into a diabetic coma upon stuffing too many fistfuls of chocolate fudge into my mouth at once.
Do I feel any different? Well, apart from an extra years worth of wear and tear, aches and pains, as well as one more barrel roll of girth around my waistline – I don’t feel any different at all. A little more bitter and twisted perhaps, older definitely, but “different” - no, not exactly.
I feel like soon I’ll have to start wearing my belts up around my chest, mow down bowls full of Viagra just to get any reaction from my rusted, underused manhood, and take to asking people if my adult diapers make my ass look fat.
Happy 33rd indeed!
There have been those well-wishers who relish in trying to get me to believe that turning 33 years old is some kind of special occasion since it’s a “double digit” birthday. Huh? Perhaps if you’re a multiple of eleven you may be excited, or say, a porn star to whom “double digits” might be a little more, shall we say, stimulating; but to me “double digits” means “Snake Eyes” – and that doesn’t sound too fucking special or lucky to me!
I mean, I already feel fucked enough that I don’t need any additional double digit finger-banging courtesy of life in general. The only double digits that I give two shits about today are the two fingers of whiskey in my glass and the double figure count of grams of fat that I’ll be packing onto my ass after each of my extra-sized slices of Duncan Hines ‘Deep Double Chocolate Fudge’ birthday cake that I baked myself to celebrate.
To cap off the celebrations this evening for my 33 years of accumulated experience in this lifetime, I’ll smother myself face first in the cake remains after lapsing into a diabetic coma upon stuffing too many fistfuls of chocolate fudge into my mouth at once.
Do I feel any different? Well, apart from an extra years worth of wear and tear, aches and pains, as well as one more barrel roll of girth around my waistline – I don’t feel any different at all. A little more bitter and twisted perhaps, older definitely, but “different” - no, not exactly.
I feel like soon I’ll have to start wearing my belts up around my chest, mow down bowls full of Viagra just to get any reaction from my rusted, underused manhood, and take to asking people if my adult diapers make my ass look fat.
Happy 33rd indeed!
posted by crazytigerrabbitman at
7:28 PM
2 Comments:
I remember 33, not quite as rotten as yours, but so far I am still going. 36 this year, woohoo!
By
Sandi, at 10:15 AM
cheers! here's to another year in your man skirt and shirts with big cuffs!
By
STP, at 1:16 PM
Post a Comment
<< Home