Matt, you lazy sod, it's your birthday. I feel an urge to deliver you a high speed present: a nicely wrapped fist. But I won't, because it's your birthday, and you must demand birthday punches unwrapped instead.
The mighty Human Beetroot has survived another year - how on Earth did he do it? Therefore, it is time to bestow a great honour upon him: the true naming. I name thee Franz of the Beetrootenstein, head of picnic hamper knitting and obesity at the Kettle. You shall forever hold this title, even if you die. We shall carve it into your tombstone, your piano, your left foot. And forever you shall be a year older.
Happy birthday, Matt. Enjoy Franzeening around.
Regards,
Pickles
No comments:
Post a Comment