Make a Wish and Blow Me

I hate my birthday. And not for the older thing. We're all gonna die. Yeah, sweetheart, you too. (Sorry. Someone go console that person.) My hair's falling out in a light but persistent frequency, letting me know I'll be bald by 40. No sore feelings there either. Sean Connery was named MAN OF THE YEAR. Out of principal, I don't bitch about Social Security because of him. Or is it desperation? As long as there's pudrow* involved...

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.

Shopping for Women's Shoes

If I were a chick, I'd totally wear these. They're like Chuck Taylors with heels.

Capitalism Part Three

I must admit, the main reason I did this was so I could tag it with ARIZONA WALL MEXICAN KANGAROO. It's the 'To Catch a Predator' in me.

Capitalism Part Two

I haven't seen a human cannonball in a while. Perhaps I could peruse Craigslist, pick up some of those cannons cheap, and sell them at a huge profit before the Department of Immigration knows what hit 'em. Which would probably be a flying Mexican. Safety net not included.

Capitalism

With the news of the Arizona wall, I've decided to start a company specializing in oversized slingshots. As anti-American as it is, people forgave IBM for helping Nazi Germany pull off a census or two. I'll take my chances.

Don't Talk to Strangers

 Childhood Lessons I Took Too Seriously  (CLITTS)

When I was young, kidnapping was big business. In reality, it wasn't a business so much as a hobby. A hobby for sick fuckers in late model vans trolling the neighborhood for hot, pink grade school ass. Every night on the evening news, the anchors would tell my parents and me about another child gone missing. My lack of geographical knowledge led me to believe that all this shit was going down a mile from my house. I was THREE DAY COKE BENDER paranoid. Had I known what they did to the children when they got 'em, I would've duct-taped my asshole shut and filed my baby teeth pointy.

I had code words, hand-signals, 'don't go with that guy' hand signals (like the index through a closed OK symbol), and curfews. Watching maximum security lock-up documentaries give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. With the threat long since passed, I can reveal that the code word was my favorite cookie which I can never enjoy fully even now. As a child, I would be reminded of the stark realities of the world, washing down my password cookies with milk from a carton showcasing missing children on the back like a Dillinger wanted poster.

I can't talk to people. If you aren't a friend of a close family member, a friend of a coworker I HAVE to talk to, or a neighbor (and only if you're blocking my driveway), I likely haven't spoken a word to you. Though I would welcome the opportunity to get kidnapped (good luck fitting me into a 55 gallon container), the anxiety that comes along with such a horrible event is attached to every introduction I have to make. I hate saying my own name. If I wasn't such a cheap bastard, I would get business cards to avoid having to say it. Or milk cartons.

Where is Osama's Body?