It’s my birthday!
The celebrations in my honor occurred over the weekend, in order to coincide with the brutal heat wave that melted 19 elderly horses in this region alone. The festivities took place in New Brighton, MN, home of the swarthy duo known as Leroy and Kevin. I purchased large quantities of cheap beer that my friends might imbibe at their leisure, and I invited people to bring their own meat to grill. Of course, I should have known that Ted would take the orders too far and bring two steaks, each large enough to cover a Monopoly playing board.
The patrons of my party had their fill of awkard jokes, strained conversation, and Ted’s filthy meat-slabs. We had a nice time, and it ended up going longer than planned, due mostly to the arrival of the police, troubled by the haggard shouts of Ted’s Call of the Flesh. The police did not at first understand, believing that out party was a collection of drunken bums who had all somehow wandered onto the same patio in search of booze and dog-love. Eventually, however, the whole thing got straightened out, and we talked them down to a few tickets for public indecency.
After the party, Bridgette and I made our way down to Rochester to celebrate with my family. We were greeted with warm embraces and some sweet-ass rhubarb pie.
The pie was as sweet as a newborn mouse dipped in molasses. As we ate the pie, we played Canasta, and told tales of ribaldry and merriment. Also, my dog puked. However, nothing was able to distract me from the delights that my birthday held for me. As gifts, I receieved a flash drive for my computer, a biography on Groucho Marx, a new pair of running shoes, and (strangely) my father’s left eye. They were just what I wanted.
All in all, if my birthday was any indication, 27 should be a nice age for me this year. Unless I die in a car accident, that is.