Memo: Don’t Forget Becky’s Birthday on Tuesday
Weier Not Amused
So lay it all out sister. Don’t give me this, “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway,” business. I made the mistake of ignoring you on Halloween ’08 when I finally made the executive decision to go to Yield instead of Cans. Oh, Becky, you slutty little astronaut, you. I’ve never seen someone so passive aggressively click away in broken heels so hard. Won’t do that again. So sister girlfriend, what does your little heart desire on the day you gloriously emerged from your mothers womb?
Dinner? Cool. Drinks? Okay. Princess crowns? Hell to the mother flippin’ no! Absolutely not. No. No. NO! I’ll do anything else. Please just don’t make me wear a pink, sparkle crown in public. Everyone is staring at us. I’m too old for this. We could go get matching butterfly tattoos that say “Friends for Eva” or sing Shania Twain at karaoke night. I’ll do anything other than the crown. Stop it.
Honey, you are 27 today…27. It’s not cute anymore. In fact, most could make the argument that you look as pathetic as a mom strip teasing her way to Madonna arms, wearing a tube top and chatting on Facebook. You’re not turning 21. Stop clinging. It was really awesome when the girls of Kappa Kappa Gamma threw you a Playboy party, and I had to wear bunny ears. But we are in public, and you have a law degree. Remember that? You have a condo, a job and a fiancé. That’s big girl stuff.
So Becky, please don’t make me do it. I don’t want to be a grumpy Gus, but there is no way in hell I’m walking around Milwaukee in a fuzzy crown while you scream, “It’s my bucking firthday!”
And come time for your bachelorette party, you best believe there will be no male genitalia anywhere near my hair, chest or mouth. Ya betta’ believe it!