Oh, my little chickens, what excitement around our normally sleepy little corner. Yesterday was the anniversary of R Man dropping by his cardiologist and winding up being whisked into the hospital for open heart surgery. Let that be a lesson to you, duckies. It was also our 27th anniversary of meeting in a sleazy New Orleans bar. My, my, my. Who could have known pulling my pants down in the backroom of Jewel’s would be such a brilliant first step.
And then today is R Man’s birthday; happy, happy sweetie. His 60th, in fact. To start the celebrations of such a momentous one, we had lunch at the Zuni Cafe yesterday with his best friends – delicious, amusing and LONG on very hard seats. My butt is still sore, but it was a wonderful time.
I gave R several CDs of Renaissance music including a piece written for some long gone Pope which was only performed for his Holiness, alone, all by his bad self, on Easter by a choir of men and pussyboys. God only knows what went on after that, although I am perfectly wiling to speculate.
Tomorrow, of course, is our date with destiny when the beautiful and lovely David comes over to cut down the tree in our backyard. To finish the birthday celebration, we’re having hot dogs for lunch. We have been very virtuous ever since the silly old cardiac incident by not eating fat or processed meats, which way leave out hot dogs, so this exception is a big deal. I also realize from sad experience with you guys and your lacivous comments whenever poor little Dave is mentioned, that combining him and wieners in one post is asking for it. Consider this a present to you all, you vulgar dogs you. Knock yourselves out. Happy birthday.