Wishing Johnny Damon a happy birthday is total fucking overkill. We refuse to do it. Here’s why:
Johnny Damon and Joba the Hutt Chamberlain celebrate the New York Yankees’ 27th World Series title
Imagine you’re Johnny Damon. You wake up today, and it’s your 36th birthday. You’re hungover, no, scratch that, you’re still drunk from the night before, because you raged into the wee hours after winning the World Series. Not your first World Series, mind you, but your second…in five years. Would it be gauche to wear both rings at once, you wonder, sleepily, drunkenly, grinning at the irony of your World Series ring won with the Red Sox and your World Series ring won with the Yankees glinting side by side on your knuckles. (You’re pretty stoked that you know what “irony” is, too. Well, sorta, but you wouldn’t want to have to put it in, like, actual words.)
But who needs words when your cleats are going to Cooperstown?
And despite having had some money tied up with a Ponzi schemer earlier this year, you’ve somehow emerged from that financially unscathed and are still a multimillionaire, unlike all of those unlucky New Yorkers who invested with that other guy, whatshisface, Ma– Ma– Mad-dow or something?
Oh, and your wife just blew you to start your birthday off right. Now she’s making you steak and eggs over easy before she blows you again.
Sweeeeeeet. Blowjobs rule.
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