Scrappy, scrappy birth trauma to you and your fetishized ones, Zanth o' th' zed 'n' anthropomorphic urges.
I do hope you'll excuse me for not breaking into your home to deposit various water-soluble "presents," but, sadly, my binoculars and I couldn't make it. (Please offer my apologies to the tree nearest your bedroom window.) As much as I would have liked to distribute quarts of joy to those in need, the slashing twinge in my knee has become a pain in the neck: Your festivities might have been eclipsed by the distraction of my screaming and clutching my pants and weeping to God and biting people's hands and so froth.
In the whinemeal, do christen your monitor with a ghetto latte in lieu of a birthday one-liner. Consider it a gift from me, your devoted fluids altruist.
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(Whey the buy: Why has this thread resurfaced? Didn't your birthday, like mine, take place last September? Why did Beagle resurrect it?)[/size]