Twoday, June the 2th, is my sixty-tooth birthday. I say tooth because that’s how I celebrated Birthday Eve: at the dentist having a broken tooth (which had previously been roto-rootered and capped) removed from my body. It was a nasty-looking thing and a gusher—it bled most of the night, and the dogs stayed extra-close because they smelled fresh meat in the offing.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, the tooth fairy never showed up either, so I mentioned it to her this morning.
“Did you have the alleged pulled tooth under your pillow, hmmmm?” she asked.
“You mean the blood-soaked pillow the dogs kept slathering at all night? No, I did not, your Supreme Fairyness.”
“Well there you go then. No tooth, no payoff. And besides, I didn’t have anything smaller than a one dollar bill.”
Cheap fucking fairy.
So, with the recent demise of tooth number #9, which is literally right under my nose, I suddenly look like I’m sixty-two. Or eighty-two. Actually, with that big missing spot right in the upper middle, I look like Horace “Horseballs” Callahan, fresh off the fertilizer truck.
But you wanna know what? I don’t give a shit. I’m still the same loveable asshole I’ve always been, only now I look more the part—kind of like Wilford Brimley selling life insurance to all the gullible fertilizer truck owners.
Now that I’m an official senior citizen according to the Social Security Administration, I’m a new lead for the scammers, con artists, and gypsies who prey on old people. Well, for their information, I’m onto their tricks. I don’t need aluminum siding on our stucco house, there’s nothing wrong with the furnace because we don’t have one, and I pass on the millions of gold doubloons hidden by the Nazis that are waiting just for me in Abyssinia. Fuck you all very much.
There’s still eleven hours left of my birthday, a day that technically belongs to my mom because she did all the work, but I’m going to enjoy it anyway. I’m on dry socket watch; since I’m on dry socket watch, we’ll be having Martha’s famous pizza-flavored gruel for supper; and maybe I’ll even get a gift, but I’m not expecting much from a woman who only has a buck.
But the hell with a gift. I’d much rather have a hug, some spit swapping, and a nice relaxing tummy rub—all the stuff that’s free when you love someone . . .