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        Sunday, April 16, 2006

    You Say It's Your Birthday...(Reprint)

    [I wrote this last year]

    ...well it's my birthday too, yeah...

    Tomorrow. The Big 5-0h. As in "Oh shit, lookit all those gray hairs!"

    It wasn't my idea. I've been trying to die for years. No one seems to be able to kill me, and I care too much for my few loved ones to do the logical thing, and voluntarily jump off a ride that always ends terminally, and, usually, painfully and humiliatingly.

    I've been in over 15 major car accidents, and came through with but a few scratches, and in some cases, not even a bump. I've been shot at, stabbed, cut, beaten, pushed out of aircraft, hit by cars (twice), and not one of those cocksuckers had the decency to end my miserable life.

    I have welcomed several serious illnesses, and have been cured of every one. I welcome the dentist this month to take his shot...such a procedure holds promise. Any number of things can go wrong.
    But no, I'll just end up alive, in pain, and chugging inexorably towards another damn birthday.


    There is a very nice, silenced Ruger .22 pistol a company in Bend puts out, but no, I will doubtless get a book, or a couple of humorous cards, maybe with a few small bills in them. Doubtful, as my kin is poor, as well.


    I am drinking Pabst beer, a seviceable brew, and cheap. I do not care to disrespect my loyal donors with extravagance. Later, I shall switch to a dago red. Git'r done. I'll watch my Friday night fare, and pray for an embolism just before bed.

    I'll wake up to 'Happy Birthday!'
    My wife ratted me out to the kids, and they are beside themselves. Natty has been telling me not to watch as she makes my present...some wretched, colored and papered and scissored thing which I will, of course, treasure.

    John merely watches. He is mostly watching, and trying to smile with his new face, which pains him as the new mouth-bolts drag on the inside of his lips, a situation which we hope to rectify Monday. John is not terribly crafty, seeing as how God chose to, at least temporarily, deny him serviceable fingers. I...we, make him fend for himself as best he can, and it tortures me to watch him work so hard at a button, or a zipper, or hold a crayon.

    He sometimes holds his little hands out and just looks at them. Quizically. I take his hands and kiss them and never let him hide them. I love it when he holds my face in those scarred, broken hands, or claps them enthusiastically to one of his favorite Jesus songs. He's a good, nay, a great clapper. He can give a clap offering like nobody's business.

    It is hard, though, when someone has the courage to ask him how old he is, and he gamely tries to show them seven fingers, and the last three won't bend out of the way.

    Oh, look. Now I've gone and made you maudlin...brought you down to my level, as it were. Sorry. Kinda.

    Now you know how I feel about turning 50.


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