Happy Birthday, Mrs. Panty Pants Man!
I remember when Fats was young, vibrant and full of life; back in the days when she could propel her Bass penny loafer from one end of the hallway, past the glass-enclosed library, and into the muddy depths of the tropical atrium with one swift kick. Those ancient, long-ago days in the school cafeteria when she spewed chunks down the front of her Gap overalls to the amusement of the entire student body. Centuries ago, when she could still contort her body into the confined space of a K-Mart shopping buggy and harrass patrons with a swimming pool floatation device, better known as a High-Powered Laser-Emitting Tractor Beam Gun. The forgotten era when her typical response to any authority figure, government official, or parent chaperone was either, "Sucks to your ass-mar!" or "Silas Marner is my babydaddy!" Those nostalgic days of our youth when we honestly believed that liquor was the devil's nectar, consumed only by felons, sinners, and unwed mothers. Things will never be the same.
On this great day Fats is 24, and those childhood adventures will be nevermore. Now she depends on me to change her Depends. And because she is my elderly friend, withered and aged, I oblige. I feed her pre-digested Cream of Wheat every morning, watch Perry Mason with her every afternoon, and ride on the handlebars of her Rascal all the way to Luby's every evening. I also steal her Vicodin and pre-approved credit card offers, but at least I still trim her bunions and give her full body Bengay rub-downs, because that's what friends are for.
Happy Girthday, you fat bastard.
Hafidinator: Whilst I appreciate your kind gesture, no one can replace my dear fat friend in the Bengay department. She's a real pro.