The Cluster-fuck that was my 34th birthday..

One of the reasons why I have historically rejected self-congratulatory birthday celebrations is because I'm one morbid motherfucker, I always thought my penchant for bar brawls and back talking officers of the law would prompt my mother to wear her finest black dress while sobbingly clutching my casket like Bruce Lee in "Fists of Fury" - I was clearly on some Tupac, "I don't see myself living very long" shit. Another reason I saw birthday celebrations as utterly pointless had to do with my father, a man who thought that any room where 2 or more men occupied space and weren't replacing a car motor was akin to a homosexual orgy - usually before I could question his twisted logic as to why I couldn't have a party, he'd literally throw money at me to silence my party request.(I guess that's why I tend to throw money at problems as well, I can't tell you how many girlfriends I've had that weren't in the mood to give me oral and I said "Would a crisp 20 dollar bill change your mind?" No wonder why I'm still single)

So I guess the only way I can explain my eagerness to celebrate my 34th birthday this year is based on a deep-rooted feeling of missing out, like that college freshman who has more cocks in her than a hen-house due to the fact that she lived under the roof of a Christian fundamentalist for 17 years - like Michael Jackson's need to relive his childhood and peruse prepubescent ass-cracks based on all those brutal whippings he found himself on the business end of when he wasn't giving magazine interviews and recording song ad-libs. This year was going to be memorable dammit, I saw my germophobic self partying with a couple of hot twins who occasionally prompted baby-arm sized erections by showing me their clean bill of health from my personal doctor - envisioning them drunkenly going down on me like my penis had that "Cocoon" - 'fountain of youth pool water" in it as I watched "Lets Do it Again" while snacking on some hot wings. Or maybe in a swanky club where the flowing champagne almost outnumbered the fine women who were well above my pay grade - but because its my special day, back room sodomy requests would be granted by me simply shrugging and saying "Come on, its my birthday - I promise not to make any "what is this, corn?" jokes mid thrust!!"

But none of that happened, it being a holiday weekend and Virginia having some of the toughest D.U.I laws in the country - me and my boy Danny were reduced to celebrating my birthday in a neighborhood bar that we've frequented at least 300 times before. Shit, I wasn't disappointed, I was celebrating my 34th birthday with one of my best friends - but what transpired will have me shaking my head in bewilderment for many years to come. Here is a quick rundown of what happened.

The whole bar bought me shots: The only good thing about my neighborhood bar is that its in walking distance, the benefits stop there - the women who peruse that sub par drinking establishment look as if they were spawned from siblings or grew up next to a row of nuclear reactors. But then again, I am the black "Norm" from "Cheers" in that bitch - everyone from the homeless guy who lives in a bottle when he's not calling a cardboard box home to this chick who is almost finished withmed school give me unadulterated love as soon as I walk through the door. Based on me usually being the only brown face in the entire joint, I'm beginning to understand how Franklin felt - you know, the only black character in the "Peanuts" comics. Well, Friday night everyone who I'd ever spoken to took it upon themselves to buy me a shot - somewhere around midnight, on my 8th shot, I said to myself "This is going to end rather badly!!"


I offered someone my hit-man services: For some reason, for the life of I don't know why - but people always feel completely comfortable confiding their most intimate secrets to me. Friday night was no exception, as I started to see double and do my best Nick Cage impression in "Leaving Las Vegas" - a lady in her late 40's started to tell me the sordid tale of her pregnant daughter and the estranged husband who recently threatened to kick her in the belly. Apparently, excessive alcohol makes me champion the causes of complete strangers - because I vaguely remember offering to "take out" said offender, and for the last couple of days I've been getting these cryptic "Are you going to do what we talked about" messages on my voicemail.

Lip Locking strangers: The next day, when I was coming off of my drunken stooper enough to at least communicate monosyllabically - I called my boy Danny to see what specific carnage that I left in my wake. Come to find out, according to him - I was involved in a pretty serious lip-lock in the parking lot before we left. He said, "Man, I just stood by and let you two go at it - I just thought that all the black chicks who read your blog would be interested to know that you were swapping saliva with a chick whiter the the main character in "Powder" and shit." I had no idea who I could have been kissing, for all I knew he was joking - but a phone call from another source backed Danny's story up, and I unfortunately found out who I was kissing. The girl, *gulp*, is a chick who has been passed around that bar like a blunt at a Wailers concert - after I violently threw up(for a second time) and went over my tongue a few times with a SOS pad - I proceeded down a bottle of Listerine like it was a 40oz.

I woke up on my back deck: Kevin Smith, the director of "Clerks" and "Dogma" to name a few - puts out a podcast that I listen to as frequently as I can. Well, a couple of weeks ago I wish I would have skipped that episode - because in it he was talking about a spider bite video that he was forwarded, a nasty clip where the person squeezes puss and worm-like objects out of the face.(the place of the bite) Well, ever since then - I've made it my business to vigorously shake out my clothes and shoes before wearing them - like I needed something else to be paranoid about. That being said, the next morning I woke up on my back deck - covered in morning dew and creepy crawlers that forced me to rip off my clothes and nakedly bath under my water hose. Did I mention that while I was doing this I was yelling at the top of my lungs and screaming shit like "Fight the Power" ala Martin Lawrence? Not for nothing, but some of my neighbors got a show - I envision one of them pointing to their husband and saying "See honey, that myth isn't true!!!"

What is in my pocket? I don't know what I got myself into, but the contents of my pocket were the following: A Couple of shell-necklaces, 100 dollars more than I began the night with, a bottle opener, and a ping pong ball. What in the fuck?

Projectile Vomiting: After I had taken an impromptu shower under my garden hose and drank some Listerine, a younger woman who likes me decided to stop over to bring me breakfast - a chick named Carla whose dirty pillows and naturally thick lips made me momentarily forget that she was in first grade when I was a senior in High School. As we sat on my porch, her smelling like heaven and me smelling like a medicine cabinet - I felt my stomach slowly starting to churn, my intestines felt like a washer machine with too many clothes inside of it. My mouth started to get very watery as well and I had already owned the fact that I was indeed going to throw up - but I was just trying to time it right, like a porn star times his money shot - knowing that throwing up in her presence while she waxed poetic about Lil Wayne would be one hell of a statement. Well, lets just say that I mistimed it - because the next thing I knew I had projectile vomited on her while apologizing profusely. She was obviously outraged and I'm sure that I'll never see her again, despite my offer to run her through my garden hose before letting her wear the clothes that one of my recent conquests left at the crib.