In Honor of November 23rd

Talk about the most dicked over day on the calendar.

November 23rd, you really are a poor, sick, pigfucked little bastard, aren't you?

There you are, stinking up the place like a three-day-old turd-- fermenting there on the sidewalk, of absolutely no good or use or worth to anybody with half a brain. It's really... sad is what it is.

You're utterly inconsequential-- do you know that? And I feel really bad about it, but I'm not sure there's anything I can do to combat the fact that nobody, and I mean nobody, cares about you. Well, no-- I correct myself-- maybe there are some people who care about you-- but they're only the people who can claim November 23rd as their birthday.

Like.... um.... Emmett Ashford-- Major League Baseball's first black umpire.

And, er..... Hjalmar Branting, Sweden's Prime Minister (1920-1925). Uh... okay?

And let's not forget about.... oh, God.... uh... three very prominent and talented musicians:

R. L. Burnside, composer of the hit song "A Ass Pocket of Whiskey" (a title which, I'm sure makes sense if you have imbibed a ass pocket of same). Let's, too, not forget about Kurupt, the gentleman who is responsible for such melodious gems as "For All My Niggaz & Bitchez," "Same Day, Different Shit," as well as the film, "I Accidentally Domed Your Son."

Oh, and Miley Cyrus. Happy Birthday, hon, if you happen to be intensely Googling yourself alone in your underwear today as I have done on so many of my own birthdays come and gone.

But, November the 23rd, you are a sorry sonofabitch, and not just because of the aforementioned birthditude, but because you are the forgotten about redheaded stepchild of days. You are sandwiched in between two days of such extreme noteriety that you cannot help but be ignored.

November 22nd is the day that John F. Kennedy got his skull blown apart in Dallas. I mean, compete with that at your peril. Like, unless you happen to be the day of the fucking moon landing or Pearl Harbor or the day that Ozzy Ozborne put in his contact lenses in under forty-five minutes, you're gonna lose. And then we've got November 24th, known nationwide as the single busiest travel day of the year. Every poor, sodding bastard with two nickels to rub together is getting molested at some airport or another, suffering through indignities and getting regrettable semis all so that they can suffer through another dry turkey and inevitable sibling regressions the next day.

So, today, on November 23rd, I want you to pause for a moment and honor this day. Take an extra long time in the bathroom, have another Oreo, check out some unusual porn, read a 19th century biography of someone with outlandish facial hair, think about tipping the ugly barista at Starbucks for a change, put on clean underwear, for Christ's sake-- because, Goddamnit, it's November the twenty fucking third, and it's Harpo's motherfucking birthday, too, so it can't be all that bad.

HIP HIP....

HOORAH!

HIP HIP....

HOORAH!

HIP HIP....

Jesus, is this really my life?