Hola amigos. How does it hang? I know it's been a long time since I last rapped at ya, but I've been buried under a whole heap of shit. First off, I accidentally dropped my lighter down the drain of my sink a few weeks ago. As a result, I've been forced to light my weed off my electric stove, which is a major hassle. Plus, the lighter's been keeping a whole bunch of food and crap from going down the drain, so now my sink's all clogged. I tried to get the damn thing out with a coat hanger, but I can't quite get it.

The sink troubles wouldn't be so bad, but I haven't done dishes in about two weeks, and now all I've got left that's clean is two plastic forks, an old pie plate and this big-ass Addams Family Values cup from Arby's. The dirty dishes are really starting to reek. Pretty soon, I'm gonna have to get 'em done one way or another. I figure, I've still got a working bathtub that I can use if push comes to shove. I'm not eager to do that, but if that's what it's come to, well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

As if all that weren't enough, my furniture-hauling job is driving me fucking nuts. Now, considering the fact that almost everybody they hire quits within the first month, you'd think they'd treat a two-month veteran such as myself like royalty. Not my boss, though. He's always on my case. It's always, "Anchower, pick up the pace!"; "Anchower, put that there! No, there!"; "Anchower, I just got another call about you from a customer. For the last time, stay out of their refrigerators!" What a dick! I oughta kick his fat, furniture-selling ass for all the disrespect he's shown me, only I won't because that's simply not the kind of guy I am.

Naw, I'm gonna wait until I can give him a good dose of poetic justice. I don't know what form it's going to take, but it's going to be real symbolic and fitting, like the thief who had his heart medicine stolen and died of a heart attack, or the loudmouth who choked on the bug that flew in his mouth 'cause he was talking all the time. (I think I heard the Cryptkeeper tell that last one.) My revenge on my boss is going to be just like one of those stories, only I ain't gonna kill him or anything.

Aside from all those troubles, though, I really can't complain too much. I'm actually pretty stoked these days, 'cause my birthday's coming up on May 8. I've been racking my brain, trying to come up with something really great to do this year, especially considering how much last year blew. I had a party at my place, and a whole bunch of people I didn't know showed up. I made $150 charging admission, but Wes puked all over my couch, and between paying for the couch clean-up and the two kegs of Bud, I wound up losing like $40. Plus, my pad smelled like shit for weeks. Only after I found all the hidden cups was I able to get rid of the stink.

By now, you've probably deduced that I ain't too eager to throw another party this year. Not only do I not want to deal with the hassle, but the car I've currently got can't fit a keg in it. My younger cousin Dave says he'll help me out with it, but that's just an excuse for him to bring his high-school buddies over for beer. Friends, Jim Anchower has done some dumb things in his time, but he ain't ever gonna get another ticket for carrying out.

Anyway, I've already made a few decisions about what I'm gonna do on the big day. First off, I'm gonna call in sick to work. No way am I hauling some old geezer's new dresser when I've got some serious celebrating to do. I figure I'll call in around 7 a.m., then go right back to bed. Then, at around noon, I'll get up and play some Super Mario Kart. Hey, if I ain't going to work on my birthday, I ain't going to work. You get me?

After that, the sky's the limit. Maybe I'll round up Ron, Wes and some of my other pals and cruise on over to the Potowatomi River Buffet & Casino for some all-you-can-eat gambling action. I don't know if you know this about me, but I've got the Midas touch when it comes to gambling. Like my man Kenny R., I know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. (Actually, I pretty much stick to slots, so that doesn't apply all that much.) Then, when we've won enough, maybe we'll hit the bars and collect some free birthday drinks. At Mr. Ugly's House Of Fun out on Highway C, they give you this light-up pin that says, "Birthday Boy!" which is pretty fucking retarded, but they give you a free beer if you wear it.

After that, maybe we'll check out a strip club. At Ladyfingers, I hear they've got this deal where, if it's your birthday, they give you the "Special Treatment." I have no idea what the Special Treatment is, but if it involves beer and naked girls, I'm all over that shit, hombre.

But if I may be serious for a moment here, I'd like to say that whatever I do on May 8, it's going to be with my pals. 'Cause if a guy don't have friends around on his birthday, that guy don't have any real friends. And that's the truth.

Ya know what? This is gonna be the best birthday ever. Don't ask me how I know, I've just got this subliminal feeling, like ESP. Whatever it is, it runs in my family. When I was a kid, my grandma told me that Reagan guy was gonna get shot. Sure enough, I later found out that he'd been shot three months before my grandma said that. Only my grandma didn't know, she just knew what she felt in her gut. Weird, huh? It may not seem like much now, but it sure creeped me the fuck out at the time.