Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Baked Confections for the FooDaddy


My birthday hat.

Well, time-wasters, it's that time of year again! When all folks of all places and from all layers of the social strata come together to celebrate the day that the world got just a little more sarcastic. The sody pop flows like wine. The planet's atmosphere vibrates with a thousand bugle calls and the thunder of a thousand sky-writing planes. The mile-high lettering spells out naughty words and advice to world leaders.

My birfday!

Let me tell you about my celebrations. And remember, if you read it on the Internet, it's gotta be true. These are the highlights.

7:30 AM: The FooDaddy remains solidly asleep with his earplugs in and his cat sprawled across his chest. He considers drooling a little, but decides to twitch instead. This power of decision has made him the great man he is today.

9:00 AM: President Bush and a cavalcade of foreign dignitaries stop by to offer their congratulations. The President mumbles a speech while Dick Cheney pokes the FooDaddy's sleeping form with a long piece of bamboo.

11:43 AM: Stomping fat people barging around in the apartment above dislodge plaster and lathing from the ceiling two feet from the FooDaddy's head. The pain and swearing gradually bring him to full conciousness.

1:16 PM: The FooDaddy slithers out of bed, falls to the floor and shuffles blindly out of his lair. He rubs the sleep boogers from his eyes and stares at a wall he can't remember having been there before. Then it all comes back in a rush: this is NOT the bathroom. The FooDaddy goes to get some paper towels.

2:56 PM: Freshly showered and smelling of mint and glee, the FooDaddy prances around some.

2:57 PM: Disaster! He has blown a prancing muscle! Paramedics and extremely attractive young women alike rush to his aid. The paras read him stories while the young women feed him cashews and sing to him. The FooDaddy asks to have his ankle rubbed, and they all leave in disgust, firing shouts of "pervert!" and "fornicator!" over their shoulders as they leave the apartment.

2:58 PM: "Dang," says the FooDaddy.

4:19 PM: The FooDaddy's adoring hordes of best friends all offer him their birthday wishes and their birthday cakes and their birthday parties. Overcome with gratitude, the FooDaddy thanks them all profusely and heads to Bob Evans restaurant.

4:30 PM: A waitress notices the FooDaddy sitting alone at a table for twelve, happily chewing on a biscuit and pecking the keyboard of his laptop with his free hand. She asks if he is expecting more people, and he looks up at her and smiles. "What?" he says winningly. The waitress figures him for the type who will try to pay with Monopoly money or animal pelts, and avoids the table.

7:23 PM: The FooDaddy realizes he's made a grievous error. As it turns out, when he heard his friends say "Go to Bob Evans and get a table for twelve and order yourself some biscuits," what they really said was "Hottub party at Kevin's!". The FooDaddy pays for his biscuits and shuffles rapidly out the door.

8:00 PM: The FooDaddy arrives at Kevin's place, where the hundreds of guests, made all the more eager for his company by the prolonged lack of, burst into maniacal cheering. The hottest girls at hand hoist him to their shoulders and carry him to an easy chair where they feed him cashews and sing to him.

8:03 PM: The most skilled cakesmiths in the land cart forth two cakes. Both of them are yellow cakes, his favorite kind, and one has buttercream frosting, the other chocolate. The FooDaddy stands, puts his hand over his heart, and makes a speech:

8:04 PM: "Ladies, gentlemen, and more ladies!" he says. "I am honored to be here, and I am honored to eat of your baked confections!" here he winks at the bakers in order that he may thank them with his eyeball. "Blah blah blah," he says with feeling, "and furthermore blah! Bring on the milk!"

11:57 PM: After having eaten his fill of the delicious cake and washed it down with cold milk from only the craftiest cows, the FooDaddy hugs everyone until his arms fall off. The ladies pick them up and put them in a plastic bag, which they hang around his neck. They express heartfelt desire to see him without a shirt again soon, and he smiles paternally down at them, and would have patted them on the head, but for his missing arms.

12:18 AM: The FooDaddy, covered with lipstick kisses and confetti, drives home with his teeth.

12: 46 AM: The FooDaddy climbs into bed, full of cheer and hope for the future, and tells Cheney to put down the bamboo and get the hell out of his room, for God's sake.

12:50 AM: Dreams.


Whoo! What a day that was, time-wasters! I wish you could have all been there to fact-check. For all who are curious, I am now 24 years old. As far as I'm concerned, this is old enough to start questioning popular culture in a gravelly voice and mocking the young.

8 comments:

Jacob "Pickle Weasel" Nordby said...

twenny four??? twenny FOUR???! (my voice went way high up into its register, got stuck up there and cracked embarrassingly)

Why sonny, you ain't even had yer insurince rates lowered yet...much less yer testeekles.

That there is how come you didn' know what to do with them hotties what came to yer party. Betcha I coulda showed em a thing or two.

Sincerely

The Aged Pickle

The Stupid Blogger said...

Yeah, but nothing they would've wanted to see. The Aged Pickle, indeed.

The Stupid Blogger said...

Oh, and Foo, I'm glad to hear your birfday celebration was suitably weird. Wished I could have been there!

Jacob "Pickle Weasel" Nordby said...

by the way, Foo...

the picture of young Foo is cute, but raises some questions

First, you appear of uncertain sex--almost too cute to be a boy.

Second, your provenance is questionable (by provenance, I mean racial background)

Third, it's obvious that, even at that tender age, you have sold your withered soul to Satan.

Otherwise, very cute.

Pickle Weasel

Stupid Blogger's Wifey said...

I just want to know how you shifted gears on your way home. If you were driving with your teeth and your arms were in a plastic sack around your neck, how did you shift gears? Hmmmm.....

foodaddy's foodaddy said...

Don't forget Pthabbth, who was originally trained at Ford's Special Vehicle Team Headquarters in Allen Park and came with Paul's SVT Contour-- we found him curled up in one of the cup holders. Been part of the team ever since.

Stupid Blogger's Wifey said...

Oh yeah, I did forget about him. I am sure he knows all about shifty stuff. I mean shifting and stuff.

foodaddy's foodaddy said...

"only the craftiest cows"
"in order that he might thank them with his eyes"
"covered with kisses and confetti"

Damn, I love this stuff.