Smacked By A Chicken Bucket

Remember, we always do my birthday party at the Waukesha County Demolition Derby, so highlight your calendar. Last year's birthday party was marred by that knife fight between carnival workers at 4:00 a.m. in front of the Llama Tent. So you should tape license plates to your chest, under your shirt, before you come to my party. More to the point: Why is there a llama tent? What on earth was the Waukesha County Fair thinking when they stuffed a canvas tent full of llamas? My birthday parties always degenerate into a grain-alcohol fueled bacchanal of stupid cowboy hats, inappropriate indoor urination, shopping carts, and people getting smacked with a chicken bucket. My friends are people who don't need to stumble face-to-face up to group of llamas in the wee hours of the morning. Frickin' disorienting that is. You're wobbling about, blinking hard to squint away the double vision, pants soaked by that can of warm Strohs I just upended over you while I laughed like a prehistoric flying beast, and some llama licks your nose. I know that "pinwheeling your arms backwards in fright" is how all my birthday parties end, but sweet suffering baby jesus getting unexpectedly mobbed by llamas will make it happen NOW. Where was I going with this? Oh, bring me cake.