It’s been a hectic week of Christmas parties, but thankfully they’re all over. Today the seasonal frivolity was topped off when I and one of my workplace homeboys started busting out some old school gangsta rhymes on the bus on the way back to work.
I was doing a bit from NWA’s “Fuck Tha Police” while my homie beatboxed and it was so awesome, as I’m sure it would have also been if we had both been sober. My rendition of Dr Dre’s “Bitches Ain’t Shit” didn’t go down so well (apparently it’s “sexist” or something), but we duetted on Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice” while rollin’ down Fanshaw Street not smokin’ on anything (though one of the bad grrls was sneaking a fag down the back), sippin’ on Lindauer. Laid back.
So with that over, now I need to remind y’all that my birthday is on Thursday. This Thursday. The 22nd. Three days before Christmas. I shall be 31.
This marks the 10th anniversary of my 21st. (I didn’t really have a 21st party. My flatmates invited the pothead metallers over and we sat around on the porch drinking beer and listening to Jane’s Addiction. Word up)
According to some dodgy website, the traditional gift for a 31st anniversary is a “timepiece”, but I think the time on my mobile phone and iPod work well enough that I don’t need one of those newfangled “watch” things. Or a cuckoo clock, for that matter.
But if you wish to send me a birthday greeting email on Thursday – especially if it includes bad poetry – then that will make me very happy indeed.