Shatnurkewell Speaks

Yesterday, I was sitting in class, fantasizing about how for the next two weeks I didn't have to spend a single minute on the UT campus. I got so enraptured with the idea, I decided to calculate the date of the next time I'd be appearing in class. I expected to be awed by the date, something like October 57, but it produced a very different reaction. What I came up with was March 22nd, which, for the uninformed, is the birthday of three special people: William Shatner, Delta Burke, and the best looking guy on the Internet, yours truly. On that glorious day, we align forces and call ourselves the Shatnurkewell. Sometimes we fight crime, but normally we just use our heat vision to set people's pants on fire.

Anyway, seeing that day made me realize that I've shared very little with my family this year about what I want. I do that every year, and I suspect they'll all eventually get tired of it and start unloading giant dump trucks full of manure onto my yard, saying that my present is that I get to clean it up. Good luck explaining that to the Shatnurkewell; see how much sympathy you get when Delta is brandishing her nunchuks. You really better hope that Bill has the Neosporin in his fanny pack that day. Alas, I digress.

If you happen to be one of these gift purchasers, here is my advice for the 24th edition of Cody Powell Birthday Fever: don't get me any crap. My room is literally filled with crap people have bought me because they don't know what else to get. If you had to conjure up an image of me based only on those gifts, you'd think I wore nothing but Scooby Doo ties, and I travelled solely by pogo stick. No amount of wishing can make that into reality. If you are thinking about buying me some crap this year, just make me a card instead. On the inside of the card, write "Happy Birthday, and screw you. I'm never buying you any presents again." And try to rig it so that a boxing glove somehow pops out of the card and bops me in the nose when I open it. I'm much more likely to savor that gesture than the book of profane riddles you were otherwise considering.

Probably no entry tomorrow, since a certain someone has a wedding. And that certain someone asked another certain someone to be in the wedding party, and that second certain someone has some travelling to do tomorrow night in order to accommodate that request. The first someone? Danza. The second someone? Me. The third someone? Ha, there is no third someone! I may soon be another year older, but that's proof that I'm just as wily as ever.