Yes, it’s my birthday next week. Yes, I’ll be 31. Yes, I’ll be a year older. But unlike the rest of you cowards, I’ve chosen to age clumsily and profanely instead of gracefully. I will kick and scream the entire way to my grave, and drag as many young people down with me as possible.
When I get to 40, I plan to start selling crack. When I turn 50, I’ll roam my neighborhood throwing empty whiskey bottles at teenagers. When I get to 60 or so, I’ll just sit on my porch with a hose and douse anyone who comes within 40 feet of my yard. By the time I croak, I’ll be so despised that locals will just toss my wrinkled corpse into an Arby’s dumpster.
Which will be awesome, because they probably throw delicious roast beef in there.
You will do the same when your time comes, dear reader. I mean the kicking and screaming part, of course, not the hose or the Arby’s dumpster. Those are my elderly eccentricities. I’ve already called dibs on them. Find your own schtick.
Since the millions (dozens) of adoring (apathetic) fans (detractors) who read (skim) this column each week will undoubtedly be sending me fancy gifts (death threats) soon, it’s important that I tell you what I want. The answer, of course, is the same as it is for every man: Money and sex. Which one you give me depends upon your gender.
That said, there are some things you definitely should avoid giving me. For instance, a hat. Giving someone over the age of 30 a hat implies that you think they’re balding. Which I’m not. My father isn’t bald either, so don’t give me that “you can save it for later” nonsense. Anyone who buys me a hat will be given a vasectomy by force.
Don’t buy me cookies. I’m diabetic, so any gift of food or candy will be treated as attempted manslaughter. And don’t even think of using that “sugar-free” candy stuff as a loophole. Diarrhea is not an acceptable gift on one’s birthday. I ate two sugar-free York Peppermint Patties last month, and I still walk funny because of it. Anyone who buys me food will be dragged into a van and given two vasectomies.
Don’t buy me secondhand books from one of those sales the library has on occasion. It’s really cheap of you, and we both know the only reason the library has those sales is to get rid of books they suspect people have soiled with bodily fluids. It’s an entire sale full of stained books where half the pages are sticky or sealed together by snot.
Besides, I’m far too stupid to read more than one book per year. Hell, even one book is pushing it. I generally can read four pages before getting distracted by birds out the window, or an e-mail someone sent me about penile enlargement. Anyone who buys me a book will be given a vasectomy live on the internet.
Don’t buy me porn. You don’t know my pornographic preferences, and I’m certainly not going to volunteer that information to you. The way I like to see ladies defiled is none of your business, kind sir, and any guess you make has a 50/50 chance of insulting me. Anyone who buys me porn will be given a vasectomy using the plastic instruments from the board game “Operation”.
Don’t buy me pets. I live in a studio apartment the size of Gilbert Gottfried’s groin, and if it’s both me and a pet in here, one of us is going to have to die. Also, my apartment building doesn’t allow pets, and with the cool Nerf basketball hoop my friend recently got me, the tenants surrounding me are in no mood for further shenanigans. Anyone who buys me a pet will be given a vasectomy in the break room of the business where their mother works.
Don’t buy me a vasectomy. No one likes a smart ass.
Don’t buy me gift certificates to restaurants. I’m not going to take you, and then you’re going to get mad at me, and then I’m going to get mad back and rip up the gift certificate, and then that restaurant is going to get your $15 without doing a damn thing to earn it. Anyone who buys me a restaurant gift certificate will be shot out of a cannon into a full septic tank. And then a vasectomy, for continuity.
Do you see how difficult it is to buy someone like me a present? This is why it’s important to go with the old standbys: Money and sex. Neither of them will last long, especially the latter, but as a columnist for the Reader Weekly, I’m obviously in great need of both of these things. And like most columnists here, I also clearly have no idea how to get either of them without someone just giving them to me. But that’s what birthdays are for.