Roughly forty-one years ago, on March 25th, my mom didn’t know what to get my dad for his birthday. Somehow “a child” seemed more creative than “a Mickey Mouse necktie.”
So on my dad’s 32nd birthday, my mom, spinal-blocked but fully conscious, pushed me out of her girl bits.
Half an hour later, she was snarfing down a ham sandwich.
This was an auspicious start.
Since then, it’s become a point of pride that I’ve never been more than half an hour out from a ham sandwich.
And, except for twice in college, I’ve been fully-conscious each time I’ve eaten one.
And if your questions at this juncture are along the lines of “Is he really in nothing but his boy-panties, is that his sister’s sweater he’s wearing, and are those his mother’s boots?” the answers are yes, yes and more yes, Sweet Ru Paul.
Instead of just wishing me a happy birthday–which you should do, you gauche clod–tell me something about the day you were born, woncha?