Party's over

I got birthday greetings from everybody but Bob. My son has forgotten me.

Britt and I were playing in the backyard when Mikey came home, so I went inside and started looking around.

Puppy? Puppy? Oh, puppeeeeee...?

I looked at Mikey.

Hey, where's my puppy?

Oh, did you want a puppy?

(**sigh**)

When I saw the candles on my cake, a 4 and a 3, I started giggling. After he sang the Happy Birthday song, he asked what I was laughing at.

What year was I born?

1963?

(**snort**)

He dropped his head.

I got it wrong again, didn't I?

Yeah, like every year for the past twelve years.

Well, at least you always guess younger instead of older.

After Britt went to bed we were out in the garage smoking.

So you're gonna leave it to me to pick out a dog?

Yeah, pretty much.

So do I have to go and get it too, or just decide which one?

No, I'll go and get it for you.

Anyway, we split a bottle of Riesling and he passed out and now I'm working on the stash of Coronas that Phil left last time he was here.

It was a pretty good birthday, actually. Nice dinner, nice presents, a little freaky-sneaky, and now I'm getting a litte tripsy, er, tipsy.

Heh, tripsy -- I wish.