Ode to a Nothing Birthday (“Holy fuck, I’m Thirty-Two!”)

Holy fuck I'm thirty-two, what the fuck am I going to do?
I mean, seriously, who knew I'd make it to thirty-two
With nary a clue what people do
To celebrate thirty-fucking-two.

Because let's face it folks, for a gentile like me, or a Jew like you,
There can be no hullabaloo or ballyhoo when celebrating your only thirty-two.
And if you're not a Jew, I still don’t think you
Would book everyone’s favorite pop-punk superstars Blink 182
To play your big 3-2…. even though you would really like to.

Hell, even Arsenio’s audience, in an unprecedented move,
Silenced their Woo Woo Woo’s the night their boss turned thiry-two.
Yes indeed, I’m telling you, that’s a fact, and facts are true -
Except if written by a Dick, that’s thirty-fucking-two.

Anwhoo….. let me tell you what I’ve decided to do.
I’m going to divide this shit up; split it right in two.
This way there's no big woopty fucking do,
For a nothing fucking number, like thirty-fucking-two.

That’s two chances for you party-poos
To slap me on the arse, whilst slurring “Happy thirty-two!”
And two chances for me to say thank you,
For coming to the one birthday you really really didn’t have to.

For dear reader, believe me you,
The love and support that comes to you
When you reach thirty-fucking-two,
Is as true as a bright, true blue
Truer still, than that little Arsenio ruse I just put you through.

Oh thirty-two, you little stinker you,
I don't hate you, like I hate stinky pooh
or Bush #2, It's just that you
Are just sooooo 30's bitch.

True.