The HAPPY BIRTHDAY tune irritates me like a Black Eyed Peas song (with similar repetition issues). I feel sorry for any waitstaff forced to participate on a crummy waged barbershop quartet just so some asshole can get a free sundae. When I require the attention of strangers to celebrate my birth, I'm not worth the candles on my cake.
As a child of lower income, birthdays were a reaffirmation of poverty. Kids were getting full sets of diecast TRANSFORMERS at twenty to thirty bucks each, HE-MANs at five. Way over budget in my world. G.I. Joe's were $2.99 each, and on special occasions, I might get two along with a pair of sneakers to replace the foot puppets flapping on my feet.
A McDonald's Party was the holy grail of birthdays. I wanted one so fucking bad. I'm sure I kid-hinted at it, all subtle-like: "You know, I bet those cakes taste just as good as the burgers. Tommy had a party. I heard it was really cool..." My mother found out they sold the McDonald's cake with the sugar mold topper without having to commit to the party. She bought one and involved my also unhip teacher at school to agree to an in-class birthday party. As they handed out slices, I could feel the children, piecing together the clues, knowing why I didn't have it at Ronald's castle. My parents were broke. And the splurge to keep up with the Joneses only confirmed it.
One year, I got a blank VHS tape so I could tape my favorite TV shows. It was a Monday, and I recorded that night's ALF. A riveting episode about time shares and free toasters. My father had his first stroke while he was outside fixing the family car. I woke up the next morning, heard the news, and felt the extra year, full force, putting its foot in my ass. I've tried to avoid birthday spankings ever since.
*PUDROW: a derivative of the word "pussy". Welcome to the first BULBSHANK footnote.
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