Marika Malaea

faithful marauder + fake royal

Brain Reins, Brain Car

with 10 comments

Anything is possible with R. Kelly lyrics.

Anything is possible with R. Kelly lyrics.

If you didn’t hark a herald of angels singing the story of my birth, then you probably live somewhere that should only exist in our imaginations – like Somalian pirate ships or The Deep South or whatever town that ‘Don’t tase me, bro!’ doofus grew up in. Worry not, village idiots, for I will keep you updated on my approaching 29th birthday. And like I said in my birthday invitation that you probably didn’t receive: ‘You only turn 29 once! Or, in this case, five years in a row.’ Whatever, my invites are conversational because I’m friendly, bitch.

As I did last year, I’m making a wish list for my birthday this year. Most girls want shoes or jewelry or a nice sensible coat, but I’m not just any girl. Let’s go over part of my list from last year, back when I turned, yes, 29:

No one got me a baby panda, not one of you. And I don’t see David or Amy Sedaris sitting at my dining room table, begging to be my siblings. Alan Thicke from Growing Pains was nowhere to be found at my birthday party, so I rang in 29 without entertainment or music, which makes me boring like a 30-year old bag lady with cats. And did you not see my request for a mythical petting zoo, complete with a Hypogriff from Harry Potter & The Sorcerer’s Stone?  And no Ipod speakers shaped like cupcakes? Whatever. I forgive you for not sending a rewind button for my mouth, I guess – technology can only move so fast.

This year, I want world peace domination; I want world peace fame and fortune. I want world peace birds to do my hair like Cinderella and mice to make my clothes and shit. See, I need a small staff of eight; I don’t care if they’re Mexicans as long as they don’t compare me to Kathy Lee Gifford or call me a racist. I need a chef who does obscene things with butter and bacon, skillfully extracting the calories from it in some kind of unknown Swiss technology and then injecting it into supermodels, all around the world.  I also need a robot dude – like Data from Star Trek – to be a walking calendar-toolbox-number-cruncher for me, someone who oversees everyone else: a Me Manager.

Then there’s the masseuse, who should double as the Birthday Girl, i.e.; steps in during holidays or emergency situations (his birthday, your anniversary, he threatens to leave) and performs the time-honored, obligatory task of cooking steaks and giving blow jobs. I need someone to chauffeur me around, but I won’t call him a ‘chauffeur’ because it’s cooler to say ‘driver’ (at least in Sex and the City) – and I expect us to have great adventures together, like Morgan Freeman and Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy, only more Southern Californ-EYE-AYE, and instead of driving around, we would rob banks. Then I need a professional best friend – someone who is two-tiers down in ‘hotness’ from me who I can blame later for my cocaine habit and venereal diseases; and a zoologist/ringmaster for the mythical petting zoo, of course (AHEM) – I’m thinking Adam Sandler in 50 First Dates meets Danny DeVito in Big Fish with a dash of Dr. Doolittle. Minus the Eddie Murphy. If we can’t find that, I’m fine with a unicorn wrangler.

My last two staff picks would be someone to make me look gorgeous and mean everyday – some days severe, other days soft – but always gorgeous and mean. My beauty czar would also be my stylist and ultimate truth-teller, so I think she would have to be a quiet, icy Russian, although the phrase ‘icy Russian’ is laughingly redundant. The last staff member – the most important one – would think for me. Thinking is hard and takes a lot of energy, and I’d rather be eating bacon or watching cable TV shows about  moms who sell weed to neighborhood children and fuck the President of Mexico – Happy Cinco de Mayo! (I miss you, Weeds.) Point being, this person needs to think like me, and more importantly, Tweet like me; I would hand over my brain reins to them on Twitter and hope for quality over quantity.

What else do I want? A new brain car would be nice – the ol’ body is wearing not thin, but out; out as in ‘tired’ and out as in FAT. I’d like speakers for my computer or better headphones with which to hear. That being said, ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT’S ME NOW GIMME A LAPTOP. I’d like new records and books and magazines and papers; selfish feasts for the eyes, ears, brain, soul. I want a lot of stuff. I’d like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer to light my way through the correct paths in life, which will happen around the same time I sprout an advice-giving penis from the top of my shoulder. That being said, what I’d really like this year is an advice-giving penis to sprout from my shoulder; and could he have a foppy British accent? Thanks.

Happy Birthday to me in T-minus one day – Ozzie Osbourne Europe (the band – thanks to Kyle for the correction and no, that is not my birthday present) would call this the Final Countdown, although the older I get, the less funny that joke is to me. If I think of any more birthday wishes – oh! thought of one! I want white feet – I’ll add it to the list. And add horse-flavored ice cream; if the miniscule people of Japan can eat it, then I can inhale ten times as much. Watch me.

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10 Responses

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  1. No monkey butler? Well, I guess it isn’t my birthday…

    Libby

    May 6, 2009 at 1:02 PM

  2. but Ozzie didn’t write the Final Countdown. That was Europe.

    See, my gift to you is knowledge, knowledge without judgment.

    You’re welcome.

    Kiki

    May 6, 2009 at 1:05 PM

  3. white feet?

    stacymarie

    May 6, 2009 at 4:48 PM

  4. You know, because my feet are brown. It’s nice to have a contrast. Plus my feet could get me into golf courses around the country, most notably in Texas.

    sn0tteh

    May 6, 2009 at 4:56 PM

  5. Kyle: knowledge is free, but real birthday presents cost money.

    sn0tteh

    May 6, 2009 at 4:57 PM

  6. Libby, I prefer my butler to be the human, standing, Johnny Depp kind.

    sn0tteh

    May 6, 2009 at 4:58 PM

  7. Kim was here. And she snorted often while reading. But not cocaine. Snorted, as in, like a horse. A horse that might later be ground into Japanese ice cream. The mention of which makes me a little nauseous. So I’ll stop typing now.

    Kim Brittingham

    May 6, 2009 at 5:04 PM

  8. i still want a panda…

    if you do, for some reason, receive one on this birthday, since you missed out on the last, please share him with me.

    i think panda’s have black feet and they seem to be ok with it…

    stacymarie

    May 6, 2009 at 11:17 PM

  9. I’ll share! Once it talks back, though, I’m eating it.

    sn0tteh

    May 6, 2009 at 11:23 PM

  10. Kim! Don’t worry – it’s tastes like chicken.

    sn0tteh

    May 6, 2009 at 11:05 PM


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