Of all the days I should choose to free myself of my uterine lodgings, it just happens to be the Umlaut's birthday! I mean, who could have possibly predicted this (hint: me!)? The birth of a new world savior to the two most beautiful people on the planet will be covered in print, radio, television, internet, word of mouth, morse code, and that tongue-clicking language of stereotyped tribes. Imagine - a singular world event that manages to damn any other reason for celebrating that day for anyone, regardless age, sex, race or creed. So I'm guessing... just guessing, it will turn the Umlaut's 27th birthday into a meaningless and irrelevant occaision, relegated to the kind of celebration one has for a parking ticket or full cavity search.
It's not like her birthday would have been worth celebrating anyway. She just wanted to throw a party so there would be more wallets to steal, and men-who-are-destined-for-greatness to hypnotize. Plus everyone would have to wear galoshes or somehow avoid stepping in her puddles of drool.
Oh hey Umluat! Great Party (not)! Would you mind breathing through
your nose for awhile so we don't drown in your drool?
In the end though, we will share a day of birth - an important day for each of us that acknowledges our entrance to the human world and into circumstances that define who we are and who we are to become. It is a singular association that cannot be erased, like the scar upon young Harry Potter's head that forever connects him to the evil Lord Voldemort. Only in this case, Voldemort is a rapidly aging, uneducated and emaciated Brazilian minx, who breathes through her mouth and is likely mentally handicapped. Seriously, she would bust out a booty-dance when Taps is played at a military funeral. Oh zeez hoarns! Oh how zey cauz me to wiggle ze boom-boom!
Growth Note: My bone marrow is composed of 1/2 liquid nitrogen and 1/2 attitude.