Gingerbread Man on 24/4/2006 at 04:01

---

http://www.ttlg.com/gbm/babymonkey.jpg

Once upon a time, in a land where artichokes grow as big as my fists, there lived a girl whose birthday was on April 24th. She had eyes blue as ice, hair the colour of perfectly fried chicken, and a grin as infectious as the most infectious thing you can think of before you get into gross stuff like botulism or SARS or whatever.

This girl was the exact same height as a 1976 Ford LTD II, and with roughly the same horsepower (assuming you find a way to drop a supercharged 510 v10 into the engine bay), and one day, I believe it was in the year 2006 AD, she turned twenty-four years old. The scribes went berserk in that way peculiar to cloistered individuals whose only outlet is furious (yet strangely erudite) self-pleasure to worm-eaten copies of certain Gentleman's Magazines which shall remain nameless.

"Twenty-four on the twenty-fourth!" they shrieked. And they tore at their robes in desperation and fury. "Do you know what this means?"

I was sitting there with them on that day, chewing thoughtfully on what appeared to be a forty-kilogram chunk of beef jerky, and I peered at them with my eyes (for this is the way I like to peer at people) and I said "waht?" This is my standard reply when I haven't been listening, and those who are close to me recognise this as an admission that Spaced Out GBM has temporarily wrested control in an endless attempt to send me spiralling into the sun. It is a war I wage every day, but so far Spaced Out GBM is held in check by Bad GBM, who is intent on spiralling yours truly into a bath house on Jarvis. Luckily Bad GBM has never been successful, since I heard those bath houses aren't bath houses at all, but rather congregation-halls for fellows of the homosexual persuasion which -- though I bear them no ill-will -- is not my flagon of chai.

Umm. Shit, where was I? Oh, right. Fags on Jarvis. NO WAIT STARR'S BIRTHDAY. The scribes! Right, right.

The biggest scribe -- elected by his peers on account of his imposing girth and general Stand-Up-To-Me-ishness -- smacked I upside the head and spake thusly:

"There is a prophecy concerning this lass and her future, you hapless boob," he shouted. Spittle flecked his chapped lips, and his knuckles whitened with the gravity of his pronouncement.

I chewed thoughtfully and decided to ignore the whap to the skull. Truth be told, I don't notice the whap to the skull until fifteen minutes later... skull-whapping has little to no effect on yours truly due to the legendary bony plate with which I jealously protect all twenty-seven neurons God has seen fit to bestow upon I. I believe this is two more than I rightfully deserve, but I am loathe to bring it up at our monthly meetings in case he sees fit to remove them and leave me wondering why I am holding a spear with a marshmallow on the end of it. I know him, and I'm quite sure he will remove the exact two neurons which remind me what exactly 'smores are and what one does with them. He's a bit of a dick that way.

"So," I offered eventually, "what you're saying is that it's Starrfall's birthday..."

"NGNGNGNNNNGNGN!!" they cried in unison, and gnashed their teeth in ominous portent. Shattered teeth sprayed from their mouths as they attempted to impart the gravity of the situation -- a gravity of which I was having none on account of me being what you'd call a Particularly Dim Sort of Person and not given to prophecy or flights of scribular phantasy.

"And furthermore," I swallowed a lump of delicious beef jerky, "you assert that there is some significance vis à vis her age and today's date."

They hopped up and down in place, beside themselves with fury and anguish. Clearly something was agitating these fine men of letters, but I was buggered if I could figure out what it was. Horribly temperamental people, scribes are. It was beyond mortal ken sometimes (and trust me, I've been out drinking with Mortal Ken -- it takes a fair bit to get beyond that lad. Although he did mysteriously disappear on some blatantly fabricated errand after a mere two of those horrid whatever-they-weres with the tabasco and the fuck-if-I-know liquor... joke was on him, however, and I will always remember his face at discovering the wee Starr and I had racked up nearly two hundred dollars in bar tab in his absence. WELL IF YOU LEAVE US ALONE IN A PUB WE'RE GOING TO DRINK AREN'T WE)

"Well, then," I clambered to my feet and tucked the uneaten jerky into a festively-decorated paper carton. "I should see about arranging a party then, yes?"

But there was no reply from the scribes, only tattered robes drifting lazily across the floor like so much half-chewed oh god that wasn't beef jerky was it?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY STARR. You are my favourite of all.

:D

Jackablade on 24/4/2006 at 04:48

---

I feel so small...

Oh well, Happy Birthday Starrfall!

Shug on 24/4/2006 at 04:57

---

vomat

haha HAPPY BIRTHDAY STARR

also i swear we didn't deliberately synchronize ¬¬

Ultraviolet on 24/4/2006 at 05:16

---

OMG a girl?
OMG 24?

Agent Subterfuge on 24/4/2006 at 06:25

---

: O Happy Birthday Mandarin! Ride your bubby back to his native land one more time, so we can all spend another two hours walking, only to get punted outta all the sushibars we enter.

HAVE A DIZZYINGLY WONDERFUL BIRTHDAY. May you have many babies this year as well.

Please forgive the tabasco...I've been drowning in guilt ever since.