See, I remembered.
I am too lazy to give you a eulogy.
WOAH, you say 'a eulogy' , not 'an eulogy'. Thats both crazy and uninteresting.
Anyway, you can have a discussion tomorrow, which IS your birthday.
But for now:
Hahha, I rule. The spelling is just for hilariousness.
UPDATED:
Well, Happy Birthday Babe. I hope this makes up for the total lack of a present. Its not gonna happen from this cheap whitey.
Me and Oliver first met roughly 35 years ago, back in 'Nam. I was his pilot, he was my wingman. Oh, what fun we had, incinerating Mike Li's family.
I remember one time, like it was yesterday. We'd been hit by a Jumping Charlie Suicide Splatter and our plane was going down. I was hit in the leg, slowly bleeding to death, ready to die. "Leave me!" I said to dear Ogg.
"Not today," he replied, in his way, before picking me up and carrying us both out of the chopper, SECONDS before it exploded. He then chewed off his own foot in order to carry us back to civilization, killing the Leader of the Viet-Kong (Known for being a giant monkey with a penchant for climbing up the Empire State Building) with one attack of his lightning fast kung-fu.
Ok. That didn't actually happen.
Still? Oliver is quite a groovy guy, with his many names. Although it would be hilarious if his first name was Gilbert Graham Gordon. Then his initials would be, like GGGGG. OR, if his first name was Gilbert and his last name was Spot. Then he'd be G-Spot. Or... yeah.
These are the ways that I have injured Oggy over the years:
Dislocating his arm. Well, I'm sure I might have breathed a bit too heavily next to his shoulder during our younger years. Seriously, his arm actually fell out of its socket at the slightest provocation.
Knocking him over and causing the world's biggest bruise to appear on his head. I mean, it was seriously huge. It was like the fucking king of bruises. It was an even bigger lump than Cassie. (Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh RINSED)
Introducing him to the man-voiced beast of chin.
That time I beat him unconscious with a baseball bat. Oh wait, that was a fantasy.
All the thigh-grabbing.
And, finally, meeting him with his one true love, Steve. Actually, when I say 'one', I mean, 'first of many,' , when I say 'true,' I mean 'mind controlling hell-beasts' when I say 'love', I mean, 'from venus, controlling his mental impulses by a mind-chemical secreted through its third eye,' and when I say Steve, I actually mean 'Lord Graaarhthagnngan, high lord of the scalor race and future destroyer of Earth.' Yeah.
Oh, me and Oli, we have had our memories. Remember that time when I was sleeping and you flew into my room through the window and... oh wait, that was a dream. Actually, re-reading this post I feel that some of my wording with conjunction with the picture, might give the, ahem, wrong impression of Oggy-Woggy. Poofter. But believe you me, he's as straight as they come. Ish. Actually, hes as bent as the moon. POOFTAH. Smile.
Anyway, yeah, Happy Birthday, and thanks for all the fish, you vegetarian shit.
Today/tomorrow's celebrity zombie slayer: Ogg, with his cricket bat.
No comments:
Post a Comment