Let me tell you a little about the annual celebration of torture known as my birthday.

Why would anyone be upset about a birthday?

Good question. Not to be too blunt but...you are a little ignorant in asking this because you obviously haven't met my folks! Bob, my "dad" (only by proximity, not by fabric), is the biggest dummy you've ever met. He believes primarily in two things: that Elvis is living on the NASA Space Station and that he is the next Thomas Edison.

An inventor's got to be smart.

Uhh, let me present Exhibit A. On my 18th birthday he built a giant slingshot and actually tried to catapult me into the neighbor's pool for, what he called, 'dramatic effect.' The only 'dramatic' part was whether I would actually land in the pool or not. If you chose 'not,' you are indeed correct. I would have stopped him, but...you know, I'm a lifeless being, and I think my protest required some sort of motor control!

That's not so bad.

Okay, then, how about Exhibit B? At my 10th birthday party, Bob literally stuffed my inner fabric with assorted candies.

How sweet!

No, not sweet at all, because then he strung me up on a tree and let all the kids at my party beat the living Bazooka out of me!

Ouch. That'd leave a mark.
Yes, it did. It required several hundred stitches. And some unsightly duct tape for a month.

Surely this year was better.

If at this point you honestly believe that the above sentiment is true, please do NOT read Part 2 next Friday!!!