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Birthday Poem for David So what is it like to be 30? Are you sitting in some favorite chair thinking of all the things you did when you were ten? Are you thinking about that first girl you kissed, the day you received tongue for the first time and there was no name for what had just happened? Maybe you couldn't wait, or maybe it dropped down on you like a grand piano from a four-story window? Tell me, how do you feel? Do you feel any strange sensations in your legs or feet? Have you developed the strength of ten men? Whatever you do, don't tell me it's not a big deal. If you ask me, you don't look a day over seventeen. The things you have accomplished are like parting gifts. You're old enough to talk back to your parents now. You can stay out as late as you want without anyone asking where the hell you've been. You can stick both hands in the cookie jar and curfews are out of the question. You can wear what you want. Do the world a favor and bring back Mohawks, vinyl records and stone washed jeans. Pretty please. Bring back Culture Club, The Psychedelic Furs and Madonna before she became a mini-van mom with disgusting dirty blond hair. You have power. You can run for president, be the juror to find OJ Simpson guilty. Let's go kick Mark Fuhrman's ass. Being thirty means you can dump a bucket of pigs' blood on Ronald Reagan's head. Susie can pull the rope and I'll be armed to the teeth with water guns for secret service agents. You're a hero that makes Superman look like a flaming sissy. His dick packed tight like kryptonite in blue panty hose. I think you should throw a party and invite all your high school bullies and use them as jack asses to pin the tail on. The birthday cake should be shaped like a movie star you hate where you have first dibs at cutting the body part of your choice. Who the hell wants a piece?
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