Four days till I hit another one of those pointless late twenties birthdays. At this point I just don’t feel like 26-29 warrant enough attention to have a really bad ass party. 30 you can go all out for, but 28? What are we celebrating? My slightly decreased ability to recover from hangovers? My chronic inability to ever get laid on my actual birthday night?
Sure, the night before, night after… but I swear I am batting like a .075 on the actual day and that fucking blows, because everyone knows birthday sex is just a metaphor for butt sex which is totally the best kind, why else would gay guys subject themselves to all that shopping if butt sex wasn’t the fucking bees knees, know what I mean?
I’m figuring I need to start pre-scheduling in order to break this mini McCurse. Whenever I had a girlfriend I usually would assume that birthday sex would be going down, so then I’d just get super wasted thinking I’d boot and pass out and wake up in Penthouse Forum territory. But rather I’d wake up and realize I totally got shafted by not getting to shaft anyone.
Or whenever I’m single I invite every girl I’m interested in sticking it to along with every other girl that is currently getting it stuck to and the sticking pool gets crazy crowded and I spend the entire night having awkward five minute conversations around the bar as I strategically place them equidistantly from each other like the cattiest oxygen molecules in an enclosed area that you’ve ever seen.
It’s a shame really, because that’s all any guy wants for his birthday. Girls, if your guy ever tells you he wants something like a card or cash or a gift certificate to Filene’s basement to buy some new boxers, he’s lying to you. Sex. That’s all he wants every second of every day, but on his birthday? What better way for him to celebrate his arrival here on this planet than honoring the act that made him by having a kinky three way with you and some club rat ex-stripper with a tongue piercing?
A card? Really? The only cards that are important to guys are the ones that have kings and jacks on them, the ones that come with checks for twelve dollars from grandparents and the business card of the girl he met at happy hour last week that he’s hiding in his sock drawer.
There is not a man alive who’s received a card from a girlfriend for his birthday and has not hoped against all hope that it contains a coupon for that dirty sex act that he told you about when you thought it was a good time to share your fantasies and you slapped him on the mouth and wouldn’t talk to him for like two days until you made sure it was legal in your state. Why the fuck else do you think men made up that idiotic “One Free Back Rub” coupon?
We were hoping you’d get the hint.