God damn it all to crap, you have your person self a birthday of the highest god-damned water and don't let *anybody* get in the way or, so person me, or I'll puncture their god-nippled son-of-a-person viscerae with this nippled fish-hook key-chain and don't let them yank you the person crap around.
I, too, am about to embark on a similarly traumatic journey. This Saturday, I'll be aging right along with you, a year in one day. Yet no one here will be wishing me a happy birthday, not a soul in this desolate speakeasy will remember. And I'm glad, I tell you, I'm absolutely thrilled. I'm not putting a brave face on it for your callous benefit. I wouldn't give you people the satisfaction. Now go away, all of you! Get out of my dressing room! I won't have you see me like this!
Yeppers, I'll be out cerebrating for the bof of us, Leon, yew purty ol' critter. Just keep that in mind when yer cortex starts tuh drippin' like a pot o' boilin' lard on a whittle stump in Macon, Georgia, 1922. Yew 'member that, Leon, hear? Now iffin' you'll s'cuse me, I gotta go mortar the sea cows 'fore Dugs gits back.