Sally Forth to an Age of Gilded Birthday Wonder

Last week was my birthday, and so my friends grudgingly decided to sally forth and celebrate fate's twenty ninth consecutive annual failure at wiping me from the face of the planet. Vegas had me, admittedly on a long shot, succumbing to syphilis-induced dementia and wandering into the desert to die this year, and while it's about as likely as winning the lottery, some couldn't resist the odds given. Hell, even I dropped a fiver on it. I suppose my widow would have received the winnings...and, if I really had syphilis, hopefully a shot or something.

...speaking of syphilis, we went to Medieval Times to celebrate. If you've never been, it's a magical place where grown adults wear paper crowns, eat their food with their hands, and shout at failed actors struggling for a paycheck. I adored it. Of course, getting mildly drunk and shouting at people is ingrained deep in my DNA, but the others made a point of putting on a brave face:


Obviously I'm having a blast, as I have a new crunk chalice in my right hand and a miniature flag in my left, and Kelly's good, as she's standing next to a prettier man. Nick looks mildly irritated, but only John on the right seems desperate for a quick death, and his fiance Megan appears all too happy to oblige. I can only imagine how long a blunt, plastic, light-up sword would take to sever a human neck. Of course, that may be like asking how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie-pop. Either way, as John is still alive and well at the time of this writing, it apparently takes at least a week.

The crowns' color tells you what section and what knight you will be supporting, and as anyone can imagine, the Yellow Knight was a fucking embarrassment. Honestly, he should have had a lame gazelle surrounded by lions on his shield, but I suppose that sort of heraldry is too large for anyone's blazon. Here's a shot, not of our man, but of the MC, who sounded a lot like he was announcing a boxing match.


I mean, come on. The light is shining directly from the front, but his shadow still darts blackly forward. Clearly the laws of physics do not apply in this magical, liminal space, and so I thought there was a chance the Yellow Knight, despite over a thousand years of literary precedent, might win. Alas, it was not to be.

Afterward we went back to our place, and in traditional fashion, got blasted drunk. Indeed, our faculties became so impaired that we started letting any piece of gutter trash come in and hang out with us, which is what led to the arrival of a second, far more terrifying Yellow Knight:

Indeed, the only vaguely redeeming feature of this hobo was his enduring affection for his mother, proudly displayed on a pale, completely un-muscled shoulder. That, and those glorious flaxen strands.

Thanks for a great time, folks. And for all those of you who called, thanks very much; you were there in spirit. As, apparently, was a hillbilly.