So it has arrived, my 53rd birthday. As reported yesterday, I’m none too thrilled about this latest milestone. 53. And what do I have to show for it?
Sure, I’ve amassed great wealth. But between you and me, I’d estimate that 90 percent of those riches were handed down to me by my dear, departed father. Who, by the by, shuffled off this mortal coil at the tender age of 55. Not that I’m seriously worried about going out quite as young as he did. You see, his cause of death was jealousy-driven murder at the hands of a Hungarian ladyboy trapeze artist with a magnificent handlebar mustache, which is hardly genetic. But I digress.
Fortunately, I do have a plan for keeping this birthday ennui at bay. As indicated by the headline and featured image, it involves a lot of OxyContin — the good ones, with my initials on the front and the year Reagan was elected on the back. Not mentioned or pictured are the score of prostitutes from Pete’s Poontang Emporium who will be arriving by party bus later today. But at this point in our acquaintanceship, do I really need to specify that hookers will be involved?
Also, I may or may not have arranged for my butler Montgomery to round up some homeless people for bum-fight purposes, after which the losers shall be hunted. What can I say? I developed a powerful thirst for the Most Dangerous Game when Donald Trump introduced me to it a few years back. And it is, after all, my birthday.
You know what? Damn right, it is my birthday. Moreover, my plan appears to be working, for I can already feel my depression floating away as if carried by a throng of sexy, drunken angels pounding out Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” on their gilded harps. True, the handful of Oxys I downed an hour ago might have more to do with my uplifted spirits than the plan itself, but any port in a storm.
Oh, and for what it’s worth, today also marks the 7th anniversary of this blog. Well, seven years since the original blog post. But given the multi-year breaks I’ve taken, I’d estimate I haven’t even hit two years as far as real time is concerned. Regardless, perhaps I’ll also find a bald woman to berate. That would really be the cherry in the Manhattan my birthday celebration is turning out to be, now wouldn’t it?
Speaking of which, time for me to have Montgomery wax my Speedo area — I do want to look my best for those prostitutes, even if I am paying for their company. Word up.