Whoopty shit, it’s the anniversary of my miraculous birth

Friday is my birthday. My 31st, if you were wondering. In the grand scheme of birthdays, it’s not a milestone. In fact, I think the next birthday I will celebrate will be Dot’s 18th ("Happy birthday darlin’, now go to college"). But none of this is getting me closer to the point.

I know some of you may have been thinking of showering me with expensive gifts. It’s not necessary. I don’t need a luxury car, a rare gemstone, a high powered pistol, or a mink stole. Instead, I would like to harness your brain power to make one of the following happen...

1. Let’s knock Oprah off her high-horse. I am so sick of that woman telling me what to do...

"Help the needy."

"Invest your money wisely."

"Eat your vegetables."

"Enjoy sex."

"Read this book that I stamped my logo on."

"Pay $600 for this box of cookies because they’re one of Oprah’s favorite things."

Fuck you, Oprah. It’s easy to know it all when you have more money than god and you don’t have to wash your own underwear or scrub the scum out of your bathtub. I know you have some sinister secret, and I suspect that you keep people chained in the basement of your palatial estate.

With your help, we can put a stop to the evil behemoth that is Oprah.

2. Help me win the lottery. I’m gonna buy a ticket. The numbers I will be playing are 4...10...11...17...29...31. If you all concentrate very hard, I feel certain that I’ll win. I have to. If I don’t, I’ll be forced to continue working my day job, which seriously hampers my ability to do the things I want to do. Namely, drink beer and tell stories. And, if you help me win, I’ll buy you a pony.

3. I need the power of your positive thoughts so that I might survive my daughter’s puberty mood swings unscathed. They have not yet reached their zenith, but I can tell that the next six years are gonna be hairy. Keep me in your thoughts.

4. So, you don’t like me enough to concentrate on my lotto winnings, the destruction of Oprah Winfrey, or puberty survival. I can accept that. How ’bout you wish that my next barbecue is blessed with a cool breeze (to stave of the horror of Texas humidity), the mosquitos aren’t swarming, my brisket is tender and juicy, and that my beer stays icy cold and I don’t run out (I live in one of them dry counties you hear folks bitching about). I’m a simple woman with simple needs.