The Teflon Birthday Boy

Okay, so most of you have already figured out that last Saturday was my birthday. For you astrological types, that means I'm an Aries. Not the 80's Dodge that almost single-handedly revitalized the popularity of public transit... No, I'm talking about the Ram. Not the latest line of Dodge 18-wheeler-wannabe pickups that urban cowboys drive so they can pretend to live the glamorous life of a trucker... No, I'm talking about the Zodiac. Not the yellow, inflatable, Green Peace-carrying, outboard Master of the Open Seas...

I can do this all day, you know...

Anyway, thanks to the likes of Chana and Wudrich, I didn't really have a prayer of avoiding the realities of another year going by, so I guess I'll just have to come to grips with the fact that I'm 35 and must now officially use the term "mid-30's" without the comforting prefix "almost".

Damn.

What I was able to avoid, however, was the dreaded Birthday Prank.

Those of you who know me will be able to confirm that I have something of a mischievous streak, especially when it come to other people's birthdays. In the last year, I have had a major hand in the planning and/or execution of the following:

1. Completely filling our boss's office with empty boxes and hiding a laptop in his ceiling that played Calgary Flames Fan music on an endless loop (he's a Toronto Maple Leafs fan).


2. Stealing, bubble-wrapping, and shrink-wrapping a co-worker's brand new SUV.


3. Shrink-wrapping our Shipper to a chair at the end of the day and leaving him to free himself with his ball-point pen, MacGyver-style.

Needless to say, I've sort of "had it coming" for quite some time now... Which is why I was on High Alert the last day of work before my birthday! Still, the day came and went without incident. Did they forget? Were they afraid of my potential wrath? Doesn't anybody love me? Who cares! I didn't get pranked!

Booyah!

I actually found out later than Chana had been calling around, weeks before my birthday, to plan the ultimate "Gotcha!" against poor little old, defenseless me. Oddly enough, two different male acquaintances of mine, who don't even know each other, put forth the opinion that the best way to "get me" was with a male stripper. Now, while I have no urge to watch some guy dance for me, wearing nothing but a banana-hammock, wouldn't he also be grinding away in front of my pranksters? Wouldn't they, too, have to see the naked man-flesh gyrating its way around the room?

Either these two didn't think the plan through very far, or there are some disturbing desires buried deep in their psyches that I'm not going to touch with a ten-foot pole... no matter what sex of stripper happens to be dancing around it!

In the end, all plans were called off because Management has decided we need to tone down the pranks. It seems that somebody has gone over-the-top with the joking one too many times. How ironic that the new "rules" should come into effect just in time to save that jokers butt!