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Friday, March 03, 2006
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 WHEREIN THE BIRTHDAY BOY IS CHALLENGED
As the lovely Joan (who by the way is a fantastic writer, you should check her out) pointed out in my comments, yesterday was my birthday. Generally speaking, I don't make a big production out of it. The only purpose it serves is to mark the end of yet another year where I didn't do something dignified. Like die.
For each of the last 36 years, my birthday has been observed the way God intended it to be, as a Celebration of Personal Failure and a Pagan Orgy of Lost Opportunity and Defeat. These festivities are not for the weak of heart, however. Lesser men have lost their lives - or worse still, their souls - engaging in the activities that I complete before I fully wake up in the morning. Vast quantities of alcohol, ether and genital self-manipulation are all involved and are all dispensed with well before lunch. It only goes downhill from there.
One might think that years of experience in self-abuse and spiritual corruption would make me a difficult man to keep up with. One would be correct. In all my years, I've known only one man who can match my excellence in moral dissolution. That would be Randy "Duke" Cunningham. And he's been rather preoccupied of late. And since Billy Bob Thorton stopped returning my calls years ago and Caligula is dead, I was left to persue my passions alone.
Well, almost. I've written about my Beautiful Young Friend before, so I needn't go into great detail rhapsodizing about her testicle rattling beauty. She resolved, despite the great distance between us, that she would see my birthday both in and out. This is but one of the many things that makes her the Greatest of All Women.
Just past midnight on the second, my Beautiful Young Friend said something that I physically reacted to. Have you ever heard something that your body actually responded to without any mental effort behind it? In this case, what she said caused a tingle to run up my spine and a light feeling in my chest. What exactly she said would violate her privacy and make me look like a twelve year-old girl, so fuck you. You won't hear it from me. Alas, my Beautiful Young Friend had to go to bed and I was left to masturbate furiously.
 The next morning began as all of my brthdays do. That is with a mixture of 40 mil of ketamine and 2 1/2 gallons of brandy, which I run through my blender with a 4 grams of anabolic steroid (to keep me social) and inject same into my the artery in my upper left thigh. The vetrainary syringes that I've been stockpiling since grade school have yet to fail me, and I recommend them to you all. It has been my experience that irresponsible drug use is much like calesthenics, if you don't feel the burn, you're wasting your time and mine. Accordingly, nothing less than a spike commonly used on livestock should be acceptable to the discerning gentleman.
I then put on my DVD copy of Leni Riefenstahl's film Triumph of the Will so that I might begin my penis exercises. I should point out for the record that the Riefenstahl flick doesn't serve any political purpose in my regimine. Oh no. Like most modern gentlemen, I loathe National Socialism and everything for which it stood. Triumph of the Will does, however, serve to drive the demented sense of self-aggrandizement that my cock work demands. If you haven't seen the film, I don't expect you to understand it.
Triumph of the Will runs 114 minutes, which is the proper length of time for me to complete my exercises and for my intraveinoous cocktail to work it's unholy way through my viens. Now, anyone will tell you that if ingest ketamine, brandy and anabolic steriod in the heroic amounts that I do, it'll fuck with your focus. As a crafter of words known the world over, that simply will not do. It will not do at all. Particularly if you have several hundred hate filled words about Scott Stapp to write that day.That's where the lorazepam and chlorpromazine come in. They allow me to settle enough to begin drinking my Guinness and the words flow from my fingers through the World Wide Web and finally to you, my dear reader. Any Doctor of Letters knows that there is a certain headspace he must enter before his wisdom can be sent into the world. Once those beautiful libations are injected into my heavily calloused putz, I find myself calm enough to write.
Once my drunken, pharmaceutical crazed and gory tribute to hatred gorgeous prose was fully composed and finally edited could I relax and fall into the hallucinations that you've all come to expect of me as I awaited the birthday tributes to roll in.
Dr. Reverend was the first to call. You might think that it's odd that he didn't acknowledge my birthday, but that's just his way. He feels that birthdays are inhereantly pagan and he wants nothing to do with "monkey religions." He's far more concerned with my soul, which I appreciate. The good Doctor was just beginning his lecture on how hard it is to live on a paltry six figure income and how all Russian women are sluts (the latter of which I am already fondly acquainted with) when his wife came home and he hung up the phone without warning.
 Then it was time to hear from my three year old-nephew. As I've previously mentioned,Liam has very little patience for people who aren't his "gamma." He has been known to hang up the phone or leave it at his side if she isn't on the other end of the line, regardless of what number is dialed. It is only only special occasions like my birthday that he doesn't ask me why I'm not my mother. And yesterday just happened to be my birthday.
"Unca 'ippy, is it your birfday?" , Liam asked.
"Why, yes it is, buddy," I answered.
With that, the cutest kid in the world cackled with glee and clapped his hands. After all, he's still too young to equate birthdays with Celebrations of Personal Failure. He still thinks that aging is a good thing. Don't get me wrong, I understand why. As it happens, both of us only stopped crapping our pants about a year ago and asking my sister to clean it up. Hopefully, Liam won't view that as his Last Great Personal Achievement, as I have.
"Unca 'ippy," my nephew demanded. "I want to sing you the birfday song."
"I'd love that that, buddy."
"Okay, Unca 'ippy", he said. "I'll sing it for you."
"Happy birfday to you
Happy birfday to you
Happy birfday, Unca 'ippy
Happy birfday to you"
I applauded the grestest kid in the world and he giggled with pride. Then he put the phone down on the couch and went back to watching cartoons. It was then that my sister came back on the line and said that she and Liam only waned to send their best wishes and not interrupt my my pharmaceutical nightmare special day any further.
 All that was left to me was to wait for my Beautiful Young Friend to call and bring my birthday to a close.
If there's anything that I'm allowed to tell you about my Beautiful Young Friend (NOT pictured to the left, my Beautiful Young Friend is much more attractive), it's that she loves wearing her gorgeous hair in pigtails. She's feels it makes her feel like "a dirty girl." It should go without saying that this, combined with her incredible beauty, her fantastic voice and the sexiest accent in human history make her the Perfect Woman. Were she not the greatest person that I've ever met, her inner filthy little slut would be enough to cause me to fall desperately in love with her. And fall desperately in love with her I could, were it not for the fact that she prefer we remain fuck buddies.
Everytime I look at her picture, my cock hardens and my heart breaks just a little bit more. Whenever I hear her voice, I feel as if all the blood in body drains out and I know that I'll never have anything approaching a soul. Indeed, it hurts even to think of my Beautiful Young Friend. It hurts my head, hurts my heart and hurts my crotch. Yet, John Cougar Mellencamp understates things when he says that it "hurts so good."
She called at 10 pm EST. We had a long, in depth conversation where I brought up any number of topics that a man who is trying to make woman fall in love with him shouldn't. Oddly, this hightens my appeal. Even though we were discussing our day-to-day lives at that point, and although we were several hundred miles apart, I felt that I could actually taste her skin through the phone line. If that sounds creepy I should note that I drank my own cum from a giant red plastic cup because she asked me to that she's a very enticing young lady.
Then we had phone sex that would melt the circurity of of most of your minds. Were a lesser man than I confronted with that face, that accent and that voice in anything that even hinted at a sexual context, his life expectancy would evaporate to mere seconds.
Shortly after the last waves of our respective climaxes left our bodies, my Beautiful Young Friend had a shocking revelation for me
"You know," she whispered in her sultry accent, "a man's never made me cum with just his tongue before."
"No?" I said with a shock that must have sounded like she had just told me that nothing gets her as sexually excited as the Killing Fields, which would be just one more thing that we have in common.
"Nope. Well, a man's mad me cum with his fingrers, but only a girl can make me cum with her tongue."
As you can imagine, I took this as an assault on my very dignity as a man. After all, I base my entire identity on my ability to orally satisfy a woman. I knew when I was I was four years old that without that skill I would amount to nothing. Because it defines me as a person, I take cunninlingus very, very seriously. After all, I thought, am I not a student of Janine Lindemulder? Am I not the Grasshopper to her to her really old Chinese dude? As a scholar of that most serious art, I was deeply offended by my Beautiful Young Friend's observation.
No, I wasn't offended by her statement as I was offended for her. Cunnilingus is a serious business reserved for serious people. As much as I love and respect my lesbian sisters, I do not view that sacred art as their exclusive domain. As Bono said of Charles Manson's appropriation of Helter Skelter, lesbians have stolen cunnilingus and I'm stealing it back. There's nothing I wanted less than to drag Bono, Charles Manson and Paul McCartney into this ugliness, but I'm left with no choice.
And speaking of no choice, I'll have none but to go back into training. This will be training of an intensity that hasn't been seen since Ralph Macchio went under the tuteledge of Pat Morita. All I'll need is is for a tiny Asian to stand on my back as I do push-ups with my tongue. But I will impress that woman, Godfuckit, I swear it. It is only in doing so that I can hope to redeem myself as a man and men as a gender. Of course, I know that I can rely on your support.
And that was pretty much how my birthday went.
Easy Listening Recommendation of the Day: Beer for Breakfast By: The Replacements. From: All For Nothing / Nothing For All
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Labels: Life With skippy
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