I Shall Wear The Bottoms of My Trousers Rolled

Today is the 40th birthday of the man who hides behind the very thin mask of "G.B.H. Hornswoggler," and it wouldn't be blogging if I didn't crow loudly about pointless personal minutia. No congratulations are necessary; all I did was manage not to die for another 365 days. (And I hope to keep that streak up for a long time to come.)

So: I am now officially old, and will soon be sitting in a folding chair next to the highway, shaking my cane at passing cars and hollering at the local kids to stay off my lawn. I hope to look more and more like a George Booth cartoon as time goes on; every man needs a hobby.