THIS KID’S BIRTHDAY PARTY IS RETARDED

I’m outstandingly not where I want to be right now. There’s an un-short list of alternate places that would be more bearable. I can’t begin to tell you the levels of pain I’d be willing to endure if they kept me from this stupid kid’s stupid birthday party. Let me step back a bit and tell you the uneven, splintered steps that led us to this current cake-smeared shitabration. Here’s how it happened:

This past Monday, I was sitting at my desk and minding my own business. Jim Doogan came up to me with a shit-eating grin on his face and a cup of his disgusting mango tea steaming away in his pampered, manicured hand. That shit smells like ink. I wish it smelled like (and WAS) cyanide.

“Hey pal, how’s it going?” Jim asked me in the same ridiculously perky tone he vomits all over me every Monday morning. How does he think I’m feeling? It’s Monday morning, my head hurts and I have this inane e-mail from my boss I’m trying to reply to without referring to said boss as an idiot shitface.

“Fine, Jim. I’m doing just fine. Still drinking that mango tea, I see.” I could tell this was going to be delightful. Ugh.

“Huzzaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh! Sure am, pal. Hey, big guy, my kid’s having his sixth birthday party this weekend. Me and the ol’ ball and chain are having all his little buddies come over, and we’d love it if you swung by.” Jim went ahead and gave me one of those fake punches on the shoulder. What the fuck is that? Dick. “After all,” Jim whined, “You are the little guy’s godfather.” No shit. I have no idea how I got suckered into that. Must have been high on white out. “There’s going to be cake and ice cream!” Excellent. I’ll be sure to wear whatever outfit I want covered in sticky dessert-coated handprints.

“Yeah sure, Jim,” I tried to sound convincing. “I’d love to. I don’t hate you and your kid at all.”

“Great then.” Another fake punch. One more and he’s going to be punching from inside his own ass. “And by the way, have I told you how great these pants are?” They’d be better on fire. Right now.

So, that’s how I got here. That’s how I arrived at this ridiculous birthday party. With this kid. This fucking kid and his fucking birthday party. This party is so fucking retarded. The only thing this party needs to complete the costume is a pair of corrective shoes, a helmet, and crossed eyes. That is how retarded this party is.

Jim’s kid is stupid. Look at that little creep. Look at that fake smile he flashes just so the whole world can see he just lost one of his teeth and was paid a visit by the Tooth Fairy. Hey, you know what, kid? There is no Tooth Fairy. I want to tell him that so badly. I also want to tell him that there’s nothing impressive about being six. Way to not die for six years, stupid. Here’s an ice cream cake. Speaking of which, I want to take that disgusting-looking Oreo Ice Cream Cake of his and throw it at that stupid clown. Look at that clown. That clown sucks. The only saving grace of this whole thing is that the little bastard doesn’t look anything like Jim. Nice job, Jim’s Whore Wife.

This kid needs to party like I partied as kid…like a man. Streamers? Really? I’m sure Jim’s Whore Wife spent hours scotch taping them to the ceiling. I wish she’d hung rope so I could hang myself. That would be a hell of a party game for the kids. Cut down Daddy’s dead coworker. It’s like a pinata that decays and traumatizes. Who the hell is Dora the Explorer and why is she on all of the cups and napkins? When I was a kid, the only mascot we had at parties was Dad the Liquor Cabinet Explorer. He didn’t look nearly as perky and was always trying to hit people or kiss them. I don’t want to talk about it.

I’m pretty sure one of these little fuckwads just pissed himself. It stinks like urine everywhere. Who knows? Maybe it’s the clown, who obviously can’t get more than three feet away from me. Get the fuck away from me, clown. You point one more balloon animal at me suggestively and I’m going to turn your dick into a giraffe. Did you just wink at me? Oh, it’s on.

Just as I’m about to go apeshit on this Clown College dropout, Jim’s Whore Wife says it’s time to open presents. I can’t wait. You know what present I got at every birthday party I ever had? Whiskey and cocaine. And then Dad would tell me I was too little for them and take them away. Between him and whatever stripper he’d brought home, my presents would be in their livers and/or noses in under an hour. That was after the fun party games we had like Belt Rides and Hide And Never, Ever Seek. I spent more time in the cabinet under the sink than a bottle of Formula 409. I could tell Dad and the stripper were looking hard for me because they were grunting and yelling a lot.

Oh, and it looks like Jim’s dipshit kid has a little girlfriend. Hey, guess what, Jim’s kid? That little girlfriend of yours is going to grow up and be a loose-legged bitch just like your bitch mom. Awww, she just gave Jim’s kid a peck on the cheek. Fuck you, Jim’s kid. You think you are so much better than me. Well guess what, you little cock-nugget? When I go home tonight, I’m going to jerk it to that picture of your slut mom. I’m going to play a little game I like to call Pin the Load on Your Mom’s Forehead. How about that? You’re not better than me.

And look how smug Jim is. He is so proud of that little filthmonster. I just want to walk up to Jim and give him a fake punch right on the shoulder, except more real and right in the forehead. That would make my dad proud. “I raised you right, you little turd,” Dad will shout at me from the bowels of the bowels of Hell. I will ignore him like he ignored me his entire fucking life.

Now Jim’s Whore Wife is passing out party favors. Hey, how about some party favors that are bullets? But instead of those little Dora the Whore-a bags, you give them to me from a gun? How much longer do I have to stand here and watch Jim’s dickweed kid smile as he’s fawned over by everyone? And is that goddamned clown staring at me again? He is. I fucking warned you, clown.

I just took that painted piece of shit down (not talking about Jim’s Whore Wife this time). He’s on the floor with blood pouring out of his squeaky nose. He’s rolling around and sobbing like me on Christmas morning. Everyone’s staring at me like I just took a shit on the cake and fed it one of the kids. For the first time ever, I see Jim looking not perky. That makes me happy. My knuckles hurt, but it’s a righteous pain. I’ve done the right thing. Jim’s Whore Wife is crying, makeup streaming down her whore face. All of the kids look sad and shocked. Except Jim’s kid. Huh. He’s actually smiling and laughing a little. I like this little bastard. I’m glad I’m his godfather. This is turning out to be the coolest kid’s birthday party ever.

Oh shit, here come the cops.