I beg you. If you know Bible Man, or if you happen to see him around town, tell him to stop showing up and ruining my birthdays.
I haven’t enjoyed my birthday in twenty years. He keeps popping by unannounced and doing some weird junk, man. It’s inexplicable. It makes zero sense. Of all the people in our vast, green earth, doofus Bible Man has to come and insert baseball cards into my cake, or drench my entire family in cheap wine while quoting Scripture, or take up the entire kitchen while he makes an obscene amount of pancakes that none of us will eat.
Please, if you see or know Bible Man, tell him to quit ruining my birthday year after year.
Twenty years ago, Bible Man sprinted into our decent home in full gear for the first time. I had sat myself down and reclined my chair. I took a few large, hearty bites of my wife’s delicious, moist, and brown German Chocolate Cake. It was wonderful. When dirty, greasy Bible Man sprinted in, sweaty and dirty and greasy, I yelped with displeasure, “Bible Man, what gives you the right to come into my decent house uninvited? Return to your big, Bible-shaped home and mind your own business. You are greasy and full of hot stink.”“Please, if you see or know Bible Man, tell him to quit ruining my birthday year after year.”
Bible Man was visibly angry with me. He proceeded to ruin my birthday for the first time by making bathroom on my white carpet and using AOL Instant Messenger to tell everyone that I had bought several jacuzzis and nobody could ever get inside them but me. I lost all of my friends and had to start my life over again.
This year, Bible Man barged into my home and proceeded to sheer a large flock of sheep in my bedroom. I enjoyed none of the wool and spent most of the day cleaning up the big gross mess he left.
Enough is enough. Bible Man must be stopped. I don’t know if I can take another year of this.