A Birthday Gift For You

Today is my birthday.  I always hear "my birthday" in the high pitched whiny British voice of Kelly Osbourne circa The Osbourne Show.  There was a whole show where she just marched around and announced, "It's my birthday!" when met with any resistance to doing whatever she wanted to do.  When I woke up this morning and the little voice in the back of my head told me it's Friday and time for a blog post another little British voice said, "It's my birthday!"  And then I came over and surfed the web for 45 minutes looking for one goddamn sound clip of Kelly Osbourne saying, "It's my birthday' that wasn't part of a ten minute The Osbournes clip that nobody would watch all the way through for one 3 second clip that has, as of right...now, been built up too much.

Side bar:  Watching that episode, I forgot my favorite part of that show was when they dragged Ozzy out to do mundane everyday stuff like change the garbage bag or put dollar coins in a slot machine and Ozzy doddered along taking 13 times longer to accomplish the task than any normal human. The producers always played some clownish Henry Mancini Baby Elephant Walk shit in the background to really drive home the fact that this man minus his wife would not be able to exist in society.  He'd be the guy begging for your Cheesecake Factory leftovers as you leave the mall parking lot.  Of course he'd be the homeless dude that sang fucking War Pigs and snorted a line of ants with Nikki Sixx.  But I digress.  And honestly, like the Prince of Darkness is going to want a half eaten piece of Adam's Peanut Butter Cup Fudge Ripple.  I highly doubt it.  I doubt it because that shit sounds fucking disgusting (ed.note: the author of this blog is no dessert/candy fan in case he hasn't made that quite clear ad infinitum).

Anyway this is about birthdays.  And I have two presents for you.  I know, you're supposed to get me stuff.  Well don't worry, I'll be asking for something at the end of this post but for now I have two gifts for you on my birthday.  I know, you can barely wait:

The first gift is freedom.  I know that's a little esoteric.  A little blow-hardy.  But let me explain myself.  When people go out they, they have a little voice in their head that tells them, "Keep it together.  You don't want to get too drunk.  You might get arrested."  At least I've heard that people have this voice in their head.  Well, I am going to list off stuff that I have done on my birthday that will prove to you that it is virtually* impossible for you to be arrested on your birthday:

*Notice I said "virtually".  You could still do some crazy shit and get arrested.  If you decide to kick the party up a notch and take meth and then go over to your neighbor's house and try to strip the copper wiring from his insulation you're going to be apprehended.  Fair warning.

-Vomited tequila all over a public bathroom door.  Never even saw the police.  In fact nobody ever said shit about it.

-Went to Tijuana dressed in a stolen hotel bathrobe and had a beer poured over my head. In fact, my equally drunk friend had the valet bring around our car so that we could drunkenly drive it to Mexico.  Which the valet did.  No questions asked.  Arrests: 0

Bob Esponja, ¿dónde están tus pantalones?

-Purposely, and while sober, dressed up like a profound douche bag completely with guy-liner and then went out in public on purpose. If I was going to be arrested for something, it should have been for wearing guy-liner.  I would have plead no contest.  Which to me always sounds worse than guilty.  It's like pleading extra guilty.

Judge: And how does the defendant plead, counselor?

Counselor: Your honor, the defendant pleads no contest.  It wasn't even close your honor.  The defendant not only stole the victim's car he went up to the front door and notified her that he was taking it without her permission, left his home address and cell phone number and then had a picture taken with himself, the victim and the day's newspaper.  The defendant also ejaculated into the victims mailbox for reason unknown.  I've never had a client quite as guilty as this unrepentant deviant, sir.

-Been cut off in a bar that I used to manage by a bartender I hired (who's also a very good friend) and told to leave after crawling around on the bar top for reasons unknown. In this case security was actually called but again, not arrested.

-Ate part of a blanket.  Actually, I take the guy-liner stuff back.  If I was going to be put away for anything it would be this.

-Tackled a Christmas tree off a stage.  So technically this happened the day after my birthday but it also happened at a fancy Christmas party where I knew few people and they would have been well within their rights to give me the heave-ho but they did not.

Now the point of this post isn't to one up people or tell the greatest drunk bro story ever (Bro!  That ain't shit! This one time I got so drunk I put an M-80 in my butt and prolapsed my own anus!  Technically, I don't consider it partying unless at least 30% of an internal organ falls outta yo butt).  The point is freedom.  The next time you're worried maybe you've had one too many Midori Sours, I want you to think back on this post and go, well, I remember when Himbo was wildin' the fuck out and nothing bad really happened to him so I'll be fine.  That's freedom.  It's freedom from self-consciousness.  It's the freedom of not having to worry that when you get home you'll mistake your comforter for a Pizza Pocket.  So go out and get loose.  You've got nothing to worry about.  Except for the hangover that is.  That is going to suck.

And that brings me to my second gift:  A pep talk for the day after when you're out to breakfast with your hungover friends and lamenting how drunk you got and you are convinced that everybody knows.  I'm here to tell you, don't sweat it.  I have a little speech I like to call:  Nobody Cares.  It goes like this:

Nobody Cares

First, pay no mind to these fucks.  I know you're convinced they can tell what a mess you are. They can't. They can't tell you slept on a couch or the floor last night.  They can't tell those are clothes from yesterday. They can't tell that you were screaming Shots! Shots! Shots!  as recently as 5 hours ago. They can't smell the booze coming out of your pores.  They haven't noticed that you've had three Bloody mary's but only two pieces of toast from your (now cold) breakfast.  You are hungover as shit but that doesn't mean anyone is paying attention. They have bigger fish to fry. They are trying to get through the day with least amount of hassle they possibly can.  Critical to this is not giving a hoot about what you did last night or what you are doing this morning.  So knock off the self-consciousness.  Nobody cares.  And if they do?  Fuck'em.

You're feeling pretty good now, huh?  That's what I thought.  And now I'm going to ask you for a present.  You didn't think you were getting away that easy did you?  Don't worry, it's simple.  Below is a crude version of what I would like to be my Logo when this blog moves over to Wordpress sometime this month:

I feel like that picture sums up this blog pretty well.  But I need your help with the font of the title and sub-title.  I'd like something that looks stentorian and respectable to off-set the buttsecks stuff.  So send me links of cool fonts.  That's it.  It's so easy!  Also if you know of any cool Wordpress themes, send them my way too.

And now a number that always makes me want to party particularly hard:

Have a wildin' out weekend.


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