Mike Brown has been the ultimate birthday princess for over a decade. Here he is at SLUG's Sabbathon, Sept. 9, 2001 at Gallivan.
I’ve had some pretty epic birthdays in my lifetime. I am the egocentric asshole who celebrates it for at least a week straight. I think everyone should do this. It means more parties, more birthday shots and, most importantly, more presents. Life is fragile, beautiful and precious, so why is it celebrated for just one fucking day? We should do it up like Hanukkah. I could seriously convert to Judaism just for loving the idea of getting gifts for half of the month. [Editor’s Note: Hanukkah only lasts eight nights.]
I’ve also had some pretty shitty ones, like my 28th when my ex-girlfriend hit me with her car three days after my birthday, totally putting a damper on my birthday week.
Or my dirty thirty (which is supposed to be the new 21?) Angela Brown got me an awesome cake with my face on it, which I swear to god is still in my fridge, and has become a completely petrified monument of what I like to call “fridge art.” Then I went to Bar Deluxe to watch one of my favorite bands, Millions of Dead Cops, who were crashing at my pad, too. At the show, one of my friends made me some cookies that I happily snarfed down, not knowing they were exceptionally potent weed cookies.
When the band came back to my place for the after party, the magical cookies kicked in and I was more stoned than a Middle Eastern criminal. Severe paranoia and anxiety kicked in, and it was kind of like that nightmare I’ve had where I’m at my senior prom, and I’m the only one naked and the punch isn’t spiked.
Luckily there’s a cure for such trauma, and his name is Bill Murray. Circus Brown gave me Ghostbusters II for my birthday, so I got a gallon of ice cream and went in my room to watch the greatest actor of our generation kill some fucking ghosts. I was too paranoid to come out of my room and be around any sort of human, but looking back on my behavior that night, I was one bubble bath away from being the stereotypical lonely Friday night fat girl.
Meanwhile, MDC came over and they didn’t have some of my birthday booze stash—they had all of it. But they were nice enough to crumple up two dollars in an empty Jim Beam bottle. Gee, thanks guys.
I made up for that terrible birthday week the next year in Vegas. I won around $1,600 at the blackjack table, loaded up about a dozen of my friends on a party bus, blacked out and blew half of it at the strip club. Or, as I like to tell myself, I helped some cute young women with their college educations.
My behaviors in the club had to be recalled to me the next day, ‘cause I didn’t remember shit. Apparently, I was telling all the strippers I was the richest man in the world, when really I was just the drunkest. They saw this and jumped on me like I was a level on Q*bert, letting me buy them $15 shots of Patrón and whatnot. Apparently there was one point where I was in the VIP room getting a double lap dance and I just got up and walked out a minute into it, leaving the strippers with some serious, “did that just fucking happen?” looks on their dimly lit faces.
By the time I got in the cab to go back to my hotel, I went in the back seat, took my shoes and socks off, curled up in the fetal position and barfed on myself a little bit. I have absolutely no regrets from that night. I did exactly what you are supposed to do when in Vegas, bitches.
This year’s birthday kind of sucked, though. I woke up and checked the ol’ Facebook account and had like 70 “happy birthday”s on my wall. I couldn’t reply to them all so I thanked everyone and kindly said I would be going to Willie’s that night to celebrate. I picked up a cake from my friend Grace who didn’t want to go out and took a cab to one of my favorite watering holes.
The owner, who’s not named Willie, was nice enough to wait for me and bought me a round, then said that if he had known a few days ago that it was my special day, he would have gotten me a hooker. I was sincerely flattered by the gesture, but there are three things in this life a man should never pay for: air, water and pussy.
None of my friends who wished me a Facebook happy birthday came to Willie’s that night. When I got home, alone, drunk and angry, I brilliantly changed my profile to say that my birthday was actually the next day. I woke up to like another 30 “happy birthday”s from douches who didn’t know that yesterday was my birthday.
I decided to keep changing my birthday that week and it was awesome! I got free drinks all week! Then some people were like, “Hey! I’m onto you! You’re just changing your profile every day to say it’s your birthday!” getting mad at me. I’m thinking to myself, “Way to solve that case, Detective Dipshit.”
I’m convinced that Mark Zuckerberg started Facebook not to get laid, but because he has some childhood issues where he got neglected on his birthday. But guess what, folks? I learned this year that Facebook birthday wishes don’t mean shit. In fact, nothing on Facebook means shit. You young kids are taking this site way too seriously in my opinion, and my birthday proves it.
The only thing I use Facebook for is to promote Fucktards shows and the occasional cyber-bullying, which I still can’t believe is a real thing. I remember getting wedgied and shoved in a dumpster in real life and not being able to tweet about it.
So to everyone who is mad that I’m still changing my birthday to be every day on Facebook, go eat a bowl of warm dicks. Your Internet rage has been the best birthday present I’ve gotten this year and I didn’t even know that that is all I really wanted.