This year Bob decided to take me and Bobbi (my "mom" - I know, don't even ask about the same name thing, but I believe certain laws forced them to adopt rather than actually procreate) to a pro wrestling match. Front row seats! I'll admit - it was pretty cool...for awhile. I kept imagining Bob and Bobbi pile driving each other. My imagination for that first hour was the greatest thing I had ever seen!

That sounds alright.

Until...Jabba the Foot rose at my feet from his stupor after being thrown from the ring. In a flash of sweaty beast hands forcefully grabbing my neck, I suddenly awoke to the realization that I was flying through defenseless air and into the ring towards King Wong, the champion Chinese wrestler.

I struck Wong like...well, a gong! And he didn't take too kindly to my intrusion into his acre-like personal space.

What do you mean by 'didn't take too kindly'?

As in, the severance of my arms from my body!

Yikes.

No, 'yikes' is having your parents cheer on a man-beast while he beats another man-beast with two of your limbs and having the former man-beast's sweat invade your body like a sponge dipped in grease!

I'm beginning to understand why birthdays aren't that great for you.

And now you see why I'm already referring to next year's "party" as the 21st Annual Celebration of Torture, De-limbing, and Projectile Target Practice.

This is not what I had in mind when I escaped from the auto plant all those years ago, as a young dummy, through the Dummy Underground Railroad.