Birthdays are absolutely fantasmically Wyrd. I love the sheer lunacy of reviving the birth affair per annum. All year long everyone makes an accented effort to make you feel imbecilic, moronic, nitwitted, obtuse, and slow.
Then along comes a day in the year when all of a sudden a semi-forseen alteration happens in humanity. You begin to feel like God.
I have a friend who's forever declaiming the banality of my lamentable humor, claims my Sunday Best is as modish as 2Pac Shakur covered in lamb fleece and ended up waking me up at 7 am (the gall(bladder)) to hand me my birthday present. She insists its a shirt, but I don't compromise on its uncanny resemblance to my mom's bedspread.
Yet on another occasion I had to attend a call from a 'long lost lover' who claimed that I had deviated from my sexual orientation and had turned out effiminately homo. She revealed herself with a dirty word at the end of the gag. Aunty Angel, sorry to admit, but you are screamingly nutty.
The sops are unending and often singularly amusing. My favorite would be the poster of Mamta Kulkarni striking a pose close to that of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar.
Another birthday, another year closer to the tombstone and I'm forced to treat the chums. If that isn't insane then I think I just celebrated calloused feet, Alzheimer's, urinary sugar, crabby days and a sagging ball sac.
Can't wait till I die!
3 comments:
...and after I gave you that oh so cool book!
Excruciatingly hilarious by Injun.
You enjoyed every bit of ur bday...n that's the truth so help me GOD!!...n I aint calling u that, mind u!
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