What the . . . Unabashed Trolling for Birthday Wishes?

Beware of the girl at eight o’clock. Please take her to the bathroom immediately.

What the…Friday? is a weekly Friday feature in which I resuscitate a video relic from the swampy pits of Pop Culture Wasteland.

Today:  What the Unabashed Trolling for Birthday Wishes?

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Tomorrow is December 1st.

That’s right, the most forgettable day in all the land.

May I have your attention please.  There are 30 days in November.  Not 31.  No, I’m serious.  Check the calendar.

Typically by the time December 4th or 5th rolls around, my close friends and family realize it’s time to flip the calendar and then, oops, they remember they forgot my birthday.

Or they don’t remember at all.  Because it’s almost Christmas, for crying out loud.  Who has their birthdays in December when we’re supposed to be thinking about Christmas?  Needy people, that’s who.  Needy people who want attention so much they’d steal it away from baby Jesus.

Did I tell you I like attention?  Well I’m a writer, aren’t I?

Whoa, let’s not get crazy here!  Just a little attention, please, nothing over-the-top and showy.  I’m a writer, not a lounge singer or a stage actor or Ryan Seacrest or something.

Are you enjoying the music?  What you’re hearing right now is one of the world’s most freakishly tiny violins being played.  So while I already have it out of its freakishly tiny case, I will continue with a couple more sad songs about birthdays past.

Last year for my birthday I threw an ’80s party.

It was in fact the greatest ’80s party that never was.

I went all punk rock and bought some combat boots, plastered my hair into a fauxhawk, carved enough black eyeliner into my eyelids that I permanently tattooed them, grabbed-up some booze, Martha Stewarted-up some food, bought $50 worth of flashback candy, Judge Wapner cream soda, a case of Pop Rocks — regrettably.

The day of the party, the one and only blizzard of 2011 blew through my city.

By 3:00 p.m., the power lines were encased in sleet, our lights were flickering off and on and the streets became sheets of ice.  Turns out that most of the invited guests were not willing to kill themselves for the chance to wear acid-washed jeans.

This is exactly how much fun my party would have been. When you bring on the acid-wash, you bring on the fun.

In the 12 months since that night, I’ve decided I hate Pop Rocks.  And that if you don’t eat them after so many months, they actually eat themselves.

In 2nd grade I had my very first slumber party.

Make no mistake. I’m wearing one shirt, not two.

It was a helluva bash.  Until my friend Angie discovered my Garfield diary tucked away in my dresser drawer.  As we were watching a movie, she walked into the living room reading my diary aloud as if she was casually catching up on the journal of a 19th-century homesteading grandmother — who would not have cared two 19th-century shits to have her diary read because she would be too worried about skinning dead prairie dogs in her subzero sod house.  And also because she would be dead.

Whereas I in fact cared two-thousand shits.

Also-named-Angie-friend cleared her throat to get the room’s attention and then slowly read the line, “I love Garrett Martin.  He is a fast runner.  He is the boy of my dreams.”  Then she looked up and asked earnestly, “Angie, do you really like Garrett Martin?  I didn’t know you liked him!”

Yeah, isn’t that great how diaries work?  You write down these things that no one else knows and then you get to blow people’s minds when they one day stumble upon them.  Diaries are super.

My diary had a snap on it.  A snap.  It could’ve had one of those rickety tin locks that pop open with the mere gentle batting of a newborn kitten’s paw.  But nope.  Let’s cut through the false sense of security here and just make it easy on everyone.  A snap.

In retrospect, Garfield probably wasn’t the best keeper of secrets considering his deepest thoughts — scratching out Jon’s eyes, making lasagna with Odie’s entrails — always ended up in a bubble above his head for our amusement.

After the whole diary-reading thing, I locked myself in the bathroom for much of the rest of the party, crying my eyes out while my friends tried to coax me out.   I got loads of attention so it was the best birthday ever.

After that, I didn’t have another birthday party for several years.

I attended a lot of friends’ birthday skating parties though.  But my parents were never into throwing those kinds of parties for me and my brother.  (Now switching to the extra-extra tiny violin here.)

Later, in my junior high years, I learned about this place called ShowBiz Pizza.  I heard it had mechanical animals.  I heard it had games.  I heard that kids had parties there.  I heard that kids had fun there.  I heard that kids had so much fun they had to get tetanus shots later.

I thought, gee, that would’ve been fun.

Wait, isn’t this Friday?  Don’t I need to share an old video today?  I almost forgot.  I was too busy worrying about you forgetting my birthday.

So without further ado, I present to you today’s WTF? video.  This is the way birthdays were meant to look.  If you’re wondering where I’ll be tomorrow, look for me here.  Fortunately I’m current on all my shots.