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Happy Birthday, you decrepit old codger! 83 years and not dead yet! Nosiree, Bob! All alive and accounted for here! Vigoda = not dead! Sure, you may look and smell like a week-old hamhock, but you are 100% still among the living. Abe, alive. Vigoda, vital. Yes, you resemble Mumm-Ra the Everliving's grampa, but you are a bona-fide unexpired mortal. Able Abe. Living, breathing, non-corpse.
The round mound of rebound, indeed. Happy 41st Birthday! I love watching you on
TNT; your asinine comments and clear disregard for anything not glazed,
chocolate-covered, big-titted, or Michael Jordan is wonderful! If only
more grown men were as fat and jolly as you, we'd be running around in
a world of racist Santa Claus look-alikes. Joy to the world then, eh,
round mound?
In just a few months, all of America watched you engage in coitus & cellular telecommunication; you've made an ass of yourself and got away scot-free on a reality TV show; you've proposed a retarded book for somebody to ghostwrite; you've slept with me thrice; you farted around the Super Bowl, Sundance, and Nick Carter; you stole a car by accident; you drove your sister to U.P.S. brown; and now you're whoring for Miss America. (Also, I think you showed up on that James Caan show.) Sweet Jesus, woman, can't you hold down a job? You're all over the place like an Asian virus. Slow down, you ubiquitous Muppet! Can't you quit badgering us with your soul-sucking vapidity for just a weekend, you threepenny floozy?
Oooooooooh in your eyes! (The light, the heat!) Your eyes! (I am complete!) Your eyes! I see the doorways (Your eyes) to a thousand churches (your eyes)... etc.
Happy 66th Birthday!
Judy, I reread "Toa4GN" every day. The scene where Fudge colors in the map that Peter worked so hard on makes me weep openly. It worries my boss that I'm so eager to cry over the fictional events of a fourth grader.
I contend that the allegory holds true regardless of age. I am as much a fourth-grade nothing today as when I first read the book, in college. Thank you, Judy, for making me search my soul. I gotta go call my therapist. I think I just had a breakthrough.
Happy 43rd Birthday! You did such good work with Clinton. You turned a ruddy-faced hick from Arkansas who got blowjobs on the side into a ruddy-faced President who got blowjobs on the side!
Happy 49th & 64th Birthdays! Wow, my two favorite J-Ms both celebrating special days today! I don't know when J.M. Barrie was born, but I wish he were here to join in all the b-day fun! He'd get along great with you guys! He's a writer just like you are, J.M., and he likes little boys like you do, Monroe! Something for everybody! Hooray!
Hey, Stoopid, happy 56th birthday. You're weird. Really strange, as if your mother was on a tobacco-smoking, pepto-drinking, punching-herself-in-the-stomach-while-she-was-pregnant-with-you weird. Weird.
However, you shouldn't fret, my man, you still scare the hell out of me, but just in a different way. When I was a child, I used to be afraid you would sneak into
my room and eat me. Now I'm scared that a long-haired Larry David look-alike is still wearing eye liner and leather pants at age
56. Sick things, I tell you. Who am I to judge, though? I guess I got
Another Thing Comin' right? Or is that a song of your arch-nemesis,
Judas. (He's really not a Priest for the record) Now that schoooooooool's
out for summmmmmmmmmer, I can't remember who sings what. Anyway, after
I pass along these birthday wishes to you, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Rock on, psycho.
Happy 10th birthday! Ten years old! I hope you're not getting too old for bedtime stories! Because I can't sleep if you don't read to me.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sooooo sorry. Please take me back. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Pleeeeeeeeeeease.
29 years old? Who's a big boy now?
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