Well, there you have it; 57 trips around the sun. No wonder I feel tired.
Other than the embarassing tiara the best moment of the day was the cake; my Bride gave me a classic every-verging-on-passe'-man's-dream-gift; a nubile blonde popping out of his birthday cake:
Mind you, she was legless and only 6 inches tall, but then I'm not exactly Cary Grant myself.
But I had it from my child that her plastic conical breasts tasted just like vanilla frosting.
Happy Birthday to me, then.
4 comments:
Happy birthday you old fart.
A belated Happy Birthday, Chief.
Here's to many more.
Happy Birthday indeed. (Note to husband: NO Barbie in MY 61st cake this month, ok? Nor, Ken!)
But hey, yay for vanilla icing, right?
Happy belated birthday, hoping to see you in meatspace in the near future.
Post a Comment