Light and hearty observations from a fat and ugly guy. Home of hackneyed drivel and ersatz-existentialist effluence. Choleric biliousness a specialty, since 1958.

Nigel's birthday will be Super!

Here it comes: my birthday. Sunday, February 1. I'm celebrating by watching the Super Bowl while eating beef jerky and cheeze-whizz (I've always been a little suspicious of any food that contains "wizz" as part of its name...but God know, that's offset in this case by the sheer joy of being able to shoot cheese out of the can, just by pressing a button).

So Sunday. I'm 51.

Birthday presents -- receiving them, that is -- are always a large pain for me. It's not that I have many people asking me what I want, but when I do, I literally have no idea. Should I be honest and say something like "a two week vacation in Hawaii?" No. I always opt for the "I have everything I need, really, don't bother, really, thanks but no thanks, really." Meantime, I'm scrounging for underwear and socks without holes in 'em, and sure, an i-Pod would be nice, actually. But it's just not in my nature to ask, I guess.

Now, according to one of those online real-age tests (you know, where you enter in details about your weight, lifestyle, medical history, family medical history, etc.), I've got about 11 years left. My "real age" at this point is apparently 62, so add 11 and I'm 73 and dead. Based on my alleged "real age", per the internet testing thingy, for my birthday presents I'm thinking instead of underwear and socks, how about a case of Depends and maybe some support hose?

posted by Nigel St.John Regina Smegmatica Howle-Raines @ 11:13 AM