My girlfriend and her aunty baked some cupcakes in honour of my birthday. Most of them had some connection to my likes, hobbies, wishes or personality, which I thought was disgustingly adorable. The way I see it, either my girlfriend loves me or she wants me to perish from a diabetes-related heart attack. Whatever the truth, those cakes are getting scoffed. Look out, blood, it’s cholesterol time, you red motherfucker! Happy birthday to me, etc. etc.
A microphone cake. Because I do stand-up, see? It's a good job I'm not a urologist, or this picture would've been a little indecent.
A cake with £50 notes coming out of it, because I'm a capitalist pig-dog who wants to amass great wealth in order to put my boot on the neck of the common man and push down on that neck until it snaps. And then shit in his wailing mouth. Whilst wearing a crown, obviously. And laughing. It's as if these cakes know me. Oh, and top-right there's a wee jobby with eyes, because I enjoy the thought that one day science might endow our faeces with sentience; perhaps even allowing them to rule the world. Actually I think it's supposed to be the wee flame guy from that advert, but an intelligent poo works for me, too.
Aw, cute. Well, there's the microphone again. Remember it from the first picture? And also a platoon of love hearts, because the chick digs me; and who can blame her? A podgy, hairy guy with fucked lungs who shouts abuse about society's weak into a microphone for the benefit of drunks, and doesn't get paid for it, is quite a catch for a young lady! And there's the masks symbolising tragedy and comedy, again in honour of my rantings, and artistic leanings. Top-left? That's a cocktail shaker, because there's a pina colada story mixed into our courtship. Bonus? The cocktail shaker also looks a bit like my nose-hair trimmer mentioned in the previous post. And look: top-right. That's a gummy version of the snake I murdered in Turkey! Awesome. I like to revisit my killings through baking.
This is a cute one. ABC for my writing, but also linked to how I met the missus. A rat? Not because I am one, although some people might disagree with that, but because we keep rats together. Yes, that's right. Cute little pet rats. Because nothing says I love you more than bringing the creatures who spread the black death into your shared home. There's some cheese on the cake next to it (not real cheese, a chocolate representation of cheese, motherfuckers), because I like cheese. Smoked applewood, cheese with cranberry in, soft cheese, hard cheese, processed cheese, French cheese, Greek cheese, Italian cheese, hell, Slovakian cheese, feta cheese, pizza cheese, gouda, edam, Babybell, Boursin... name a cheese, any cheese. (apart from knob cheese, although the idea of eating my own seasoned with some pepper isn't entirely abhorrent to me, although - unfortunately - I keep my cock too clean for that. Maybe once I become incontinent though) Let's put it this way: if it's come from a cow and been bacteria-ed to fuck into a great stinking lump of artery-clogging yellow-and-white tastiness, I'm having it. But not the stuff with the blue veins. That's just disgusting.
I think this one speaks for itself. Me with two cakes, dreaming of the big time. In the meantime: I got cakes, fuckers. Lots of them. Which makes me the richest man in the world.
If you haven’t already read it, here’s a link to my thoughts on turning 32: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/13/happy-birthday/