Well, I told one of the more notable Ricky birthday stories ‘round this time last year, but you’re correct in presuming we had quite a few humdingers back in our time celebrating the Fiesta Fox’s big day.
I recall one year we decided to stay in on account that ol’ Foxy was dick sick and not in any condition in his down-belows for getting some public on his privates. This was usually no deterrent for Rick, who had long since hit for the VD cycle and witnessed his boomstick spit out semen every color of the rainbow – brown, yellow, green, yellowish-brown, greenish-brown, the whole spectrum. Foxy pointed out that if you’re doing things the way God intended, the broad never sees your goo anyway until it’s puddled on a colored bedspread ‘neath her nethers, and by that point you’re long gone. Couldn’t argue with that logic.
This time was different though. Foxy’s ejaculate was the color of a Rocky Mountain sunset and his internal man walnut was swolled up so fat it bulged when he’d sit. So, that year us Raiders decided to keep it low key and have ourselves a Barn party.
To mark the occasion, Kreebie scored some real prime tootsie roll from this fella down at a Jazz club on 4th Street. Claimed it was the same stuff Miles Davis took when he wrote Dig. We let Foxy do the honors. Took a puff of poison so big Flipper joked he musta had 3 lungs. The rest of us Raiders followed suit and soon we were floating higher than a Mercury rocket.
I’m telling you, what a great night. Foxy was on fire, regaling us with tales of childhood birthdays, when Mr. and Mrs. K would let him out of his enclosure to run around the yard for a bit. Mr. and Mrs. K weren’t big on gifts for Little Ricky, likely ‘cause they knew the bauble would invariably find itself lodged deep in Foxy’s keister, but on his 10th birthday they gifted him an old beige pillowcase stuffed with newspapers and grass clippings. Little Ricky, ever-resourceful tike he was, tied off the open end, drew a smiley face on it with fat purple marker, and named it Gregory. That Gregory was Ricky’s best friend for the next 8 years.
Rest of the night was equally special. Flipper paid Foxy $3 to eat an entire 18-pound bag of Petey’s kibble. Ol’ Foxy did it in 4 minutes, 34 seconds. Schilling made the big mistake of nodding out on the couch, and Ricky pranked him by superglueing one of his used merkins onto Schill’s forehead. Took three passes with a razor before Schill was able to shave off that fur the next day. We all did another round of Judas and ended the night as we often did – watching Ricky’s favorite highlights from his collection of vintage autopsy films. A real nice night of fellowship.
Ricky, I hope this here birthday turns out as memorable as that one. At least this year you won’t have that pesky Hep C to hold you back! I love ya, pal.