Compared to previous birthdays, trente-sept was pretty decent. The celebration only lasted two weeks, which may be indicative of my advanced age, but it was a good two weeks, and ain't that what counts the most?
My family flew me into Oslo on their private jet, and I was received by King Harald V with a parade in honor of my achievements as a Nobel laureate. I shot an empty beer bottle into the procession, hitting horse in the ass, which caused a fair amount of chaos. It was sweet.
Later my parents hired The Hooters to perform. I got to sing "All You Zombies" with them, which was a trip. I also did some drunk luging, and broke my left wrist.
That's when the fun started. Loaded on vicatins (vicodin?) and cheap Finnish beer, I hopped on a ferry bound for Hamburg. I hired hookers for me and five Japanese businessmen I'd bumped into in front of a DVD and goldfish store.
I met Abdul Karim in Prague the next night with some Shi'ite oil men from Bahrain. They bought me a castle just outside the city and we filled the pool with Jell-O. Kind of pedestrian, right?
That's what I thought, until Didier Drogba showed up. We took a train to Bratislava, and then Minsk, where I would've been arrested for dressing up like Stalin and trying to get free drinks if the Bahraini oil men hadn't bought the cops there. They sold me one for a reduced rate because they liked me, so if I ever go back to Minsk, I'll have my own police officer.
Then we went to Sofia: big mistake. I drank the Bulgarian Cocktail. I was out. I woke up five days later on a raft floating out in the Atlantic ocean heading toward South America from Africa. The raft had been built out of vegetation by some monkeys. Unfortunately, they weren't great conversation, so I burnt out my Robin Thicke loaded iPod. The raft landed in Argentina, and I took a train back here to Rio.
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