So today is Henry’s birthday! He is 48, which is waaaaay older than me, lest ye forget. I went the super-personal route and sent him a present via Facebook, which was supposed to be private but instead posted openly for all of his friends to see and the message I included was mildly suggestive about how I still have another present for him IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN so now everyone knows that I bring him fresh corpses to eat.
I mean, now everyone knows that we have sex.
Anyway! I got him a molecular gastronomy kit, which is sure to collect dust in the kitchen with the unopened cheese-making kit I got him for Christmas. Facebook alerted me the minute he “opened” his present and when he didn’t rejoice immediately, I texted him a sarcastic “You’re welcome.”
He responded an hour later with, “Thank you….but what is it?”
DEEP HEAVY SIGHS IN PITTSBURGH.
So I had to explain to him that now he can make the brine of feta cheese into foam dollops, or whip beets into jellied cubes, maybe morph sardines into candied cupcake toppers, perhaps turn castor oil into chocolate, or—I don’t know, what would motherfucking Willy Wonka do!? Jesus Christ, Henry, the item description says that the possibilities are endless if you use the imagination that I know you apparently once had because how else were you able to get into bed with any of your ex-lovers without vomiting into their hairy chest-butts.
The best presents to give are ones that you yourself benefit from. This is why I tend to gift people with frosted humps of birthday joy, because 99%* of people are definitely going to twist my arm into partaking along with them. I’m really looking forward to getting violently ill from the test tube cheese he concocts in the kitchen.
*(The other 1% are stingy assholes like me who don’t believe in sharing their treats.)
Meanwhile, everyone is leaving him birthday wishes that includes some version of hoping me and Chooch leave him alone. I mean, shit you guys. How insulting! Warranted, but insulting.
I don’t know. You guys are right. Maybe I will just let him sleep tonight instead.
Just wait until his 50th. I’m going to make sure this is reenacted, but with a real transvestite:
OMG I was 16, likely “loafing” at the mall (A/K/A stalking Scott Dambaugh) while Henry was getting juicy scabies smeared on his jeans. So sleazy. (I wonder if one of those books on the mantel is his SERVICE YEARBOOK OMG!?)
Maybe I should end this while I’m ahead.