A Birthday Fit For A Badmotherfucker

If you ask either my mom or the Monroe County Health Department, they will happily confirm that this Friday is my birthday.  And unlike those other 364 days of the year where my preferences generally don't mean shit to, well, most everybody I encounter, I'm seizing the opportunity this year to take full advantage of the privileges traditionally conferred upon the birthday boy. So, in a nod to Drew Magary's Father's Day itinerary, I'm scheduling out my day in advance and would appreciate it if those involved would just see to it that it happens exactly as I fucking choose, for a change. 

7:13AM- Wife wakes up without having to hit snooze (x2).  After dressing and using the bathroom with ninja-like stealth, returns to bed without waking me. She's feeling frisky.  I rise; she shines.  We repeat. 

7:36AM- Having achieved a climax that registers on the seismic station in Evansville, I instantly return to R.E.M. sleep and finish off crazy flying dream for 1st time ever. 


8:15AM- I awake to find the kids already fed and dressed to their satisfaction.  The wife pulls off the pot of coffee she just brewed and explains how Starbucks had sent the beans for my personal review. Hmm, Sumatran infused with purple haze; twice the caffeine with a nice piney finish.  Instantly irie, I approve.  

8:19AM- I log on and check the news to discover the NCAA has given Kentucky the death penalty for its willful and everlasting pattern of major infractions; Calipari is slapped with a lifetime show-cause order; and Kentucky's entire program record is hereby vacated.  As I reach for my cell to call my buddy and gloat, I notice the 2nd headline and stop in my tracks: Matt Painter is resigning after being caught in a gay sex scandal......with Bruce Weber as his feltching partner and something about Gene Keady as the videographer and "ball-holder."  I step on the back deck, fire up a spliff, and bask in utopic repose

8:27AM- Having waited patiently and quietly for me to finish reading and sipping my coffee, I take the kids outside to shoot hoops.  On her 1st attempt at the regulation height of 10', the girl swishes a jumper.  Impressed with her impeccable shooting form, she proceeds to knock down 49 of 50 free throws (the 1 miss coming off my challenge to see if she can lay one off the front of the rim and rebound it for a put-back; she does).

8:54AM- Coach Jack happens to be passing by and, upon seeing the shooting/rebounding prowess of my 3-year-old, offers her a full-ride on the spot, the first ever for a pre-kindergartner  I whip out the cell, access my Chase accounts, and transfer girl's college fund into daddy's leisure fund. Score for daddy.

8:55AM- As we begin to head into the house, I notice Irene, the bitchy neighbor whose miniature schnauzers always shit in my yard, approaching with said defecating rodents in tow.  Tijan approaches from the opposite direction, walking his rare, white liger.  Whipped into a frenzy by the smell of her rodents' feces, the liger pounces on the schnauzers and devours them both in one gulp.  As Irene flees in terror and hysterically vows never to return again, Tijan offers to hang out in the front yard for the remainder of the day to ensure such disrespectful offenses to my property are not repeated.  I humbly accept. 

8:58AM- As we return to the house, the cell rings.  Apparently, Huggies discovered a picture on the internet of my toddler which prominently featured his diaper-swaddled junk.  Awestricken with the sight of my son's bulging and perfect package, they offer to make him a trustafarian if we'll allow them to use the picture in all their marketing.  I accept their offer and transfer boy's college fund into daddy's leisure fund.  Score another one for daddy. 

8:56AM- I summons grandma to the house, hand her a stack of bills, and instruct her to take the kids to Toys 'R Us, Chuck E Cheese, and wherever the fuck else the kids wanna terrorize and tell her to make it rain til they say stop.  She warmly complies. 

9:01AM- The house emptied, the wife chooses to clean the house, topless.  Impressed, I oblige her subtle advances, and we come up with some new shit in the kitchen that is deserving of its own chapter in the Kama Sutra. 

9:28AM- As I'm setting up our noon tee time on French Lick's Pete Dye Course, the doorbell rings.  The CEO's of Phillip Morris & R.J. Reynolds have personally come to inform me my patent for the lung brush was approved.  (A non-toxic, inhalable solvent which completely erases the effects of smoking on the respiratory system.) They each give me a blank check and offer hand jobs.  I take the paper and pass on the latter.  I tell them that'll get us at the negotiating table and ask that they go find out how many zeros their accountants can squeeze onto a check.  On their way out, I instruct them to find another plane home and have theirs fueled and ready for my departure. 

9:30AM- Cancel French Lick.  Book foursome for Augusta National. 

10:15AM- After fucking like banshees atop a pile of money, limo arrives.  Bell's Two Hearted pours on the tap as we head to the airport.  Text alerts me to news that John Wooden's diary was just published and fully admits to participating in Sam Gilbert's corrupt enterprises.  UCLA is stripped of 8 championships.  I gizz myself. 

10:30AM- My brothers and best friend are waiting on board the Gulfstream V as we arrive.  As requested, a violent montage of scenes from Braveheart, The Patriot, and Brotherhood of the Wolf plays on the flatscreens.  Warren Haynes takes our request on his acoustic from the back of the plane.  Deschuttes Mirror Pond & Black Butte Porter flow from the taps.

11:25- As we make our descent, Bob Knight calls to wish me happy birthday.  He seemlessly transitions into a rant about all the fucksticks that transferred away from IU under him.  I randomly interject, "fuck that punk" and, "he was a lazy piece of shit, anyway" to fuel the flames.  I let him finish the Sampson rant before I tell him we'll go hunting and shoot some neighbors real soon.

Noon-  Helicopter shuttles us from the airport and lands on the 18th green.  We hit the clubhouse to enjoy a couple of crab-stuffed filets before teeing off.  On our way out of the clubhouse, I try on some green jackets and comment on how unfat I feel wearing Phil's jacket.  Stop in the players' locker room to rub one out before leaving an upper decker in Tiger's favorite stall. 

12:30PM- Bill Murray greets us at the tees to serve as my caddy, remains in character as Carl Spangler for remainder of the day.  We cannonball it at every tee. 

2:45PM- Wife greets me after 12the tee shot.  I send the boys off with Carl to dye Rae's Creek crimson in honor of my 29 on the front 9.  The wife and I consecrate my record by doing things on The Hogan Bridge that would make Tiger's freakiest mistress blush.

3:50PM- Hootie joins us for Lagavulin 25's under the big oak tree.  Though he tries nobly to keep up with the big boys, Mr. Chariman is reduced to a pile of confederate goo just two puffs into the 4:20 blunt.  He offers no resistance as I condition my requested membership into his club on that of similar offers to Wanda Sykes & Dave Chappelle.  Score one for equality. 

4:28PM- Helicopter picks us back up on the 18th green. Before departing, we use the copter's downwash to make crop circles in shape of cock and balls on fairways 1 through 7. 

4:37PM- Find Jimmy Page waiting for us on the Gulfstream to take our requests on his 12-string acoustic.  Text tells me Painter, Weber, Keady, & Chief Illiniwek are hitting the road as a Village People tribute band. I book them to open every IU home game for next 5 seasons, pay double for fans to hurl fruit at them during performances. 

5:59PM- Make stop in Mishawaka, IN to romp around Hummer's proving grounds for a bit.  Have my H1 custom fitted to explode cube-shaped cars upon crushing them. 

6:50PM- Family joins me for dinner at Assembly Hall's center court.  We pop lobster tails like candy corn as Eric Gordon alternates between 3-point shooting demonstrations and tea-bagging Tom Pritchard on thunderous dunks.

7:45PM- Tom Crean and John Jameson IX arrive and present me with a barrel of whiskey.  I notice my name is stamped upon the barrel and learn that it has been aging since the day of my birth (God visited the distiller in a dream and instructed him to do so) and that its wood came from John Jameson's coffin.  We quaff pints of it as the kids take turns diving for loose balls and bouncing passes off Rick Greenspan's face. 

8:30PM- Grandparents take the kids home.  Don Fischer recites stories of IU's banner seasons to the children before they fall asleep.

8:35PM- Arrive at the Irish Lion for cocktails and hot apple walnut cake.  Jackie Chan's retarded brother (the restaurant manager) quips about the ice in my whiskey.  AJ Moye, seated beside me, overhears the comment and crushes Jackie's skull on the bar for his insolence.  We attach his corpse, ass first, onto the stuffed wildebeest's horns above the bar to warn patrons about the cost of telling an Irishman how to drink his whiskey.  Martha the cleaning lady serenades me before we bounce.

9:20PM- Head to Lake Monroe for sunset cruise.  We pick up the Mellencamp's at their beach.  John performs entire Scarecrow album on the boat's stern while Elaine dances topless at the bow.  My wife enjoys neither.  I'm at half-staff.  Quarrymen's and Bad Elmer's on deck.

10:05PM- Limo takes us to Rooftop where we pull tubes (NLxG13) before nude cliff diving.

11:00PM- Arrive at old college house to re-create Little 5 party from 4/19/97: 9 kegs, 4 bands,  2 tanks of N2O.  Police do not arrive this time, though bonfire is still visible from 3 miles away. 

2:45AM- Return home.  Kiss kids goodnight.  Order Big Ten bargain for Tijan & his liger to share before calling it a night. 

2:50AM- Wife still finds a way to shock and persuade my soul to ignite, despite my copious Jameson consumption.  After sex that registers on seismic station in St. Louis, I fall asleep knowing that no badmotherfucker has ever enjoyed a birthday such as I have today.