Now we join Chit Lebaron as he celebrates the birthday of his long suffering assistant, Mobutu.
My dear readers, times have been hard for Mobutu lately. I am not blind to the part I have played in his plight. He, however, will be somewhat blind for life since I shot him in the eye with that hot glue gun. How was I supposed to know that’s not how to apply contact lenses, Mobutu? Whatever, he looks stupid in that eyepatch as well.
He’s been grumbling for ages about how he wants to go and visit France for his Birthday. Apparently we never do anything he wants to do and I’ve forgotten to get him a gift for the last 14 years. I didn’t forget shit, Mobutu, I just can’t be bothered to get you anything.
I got him to point out France on a globe for me, which was hilarious as he has no depth perception with his one eye. Also I kept spinning the globe every time he went to point at it. As it happens, France is miles away from my estate and even further from the kennel I rent to Mobutu, so we won’t be going there.
I promised to throw him one of my special parties instead, to which he appeared to protest most vigorously. Something to do with me ‘always being too drunk’, ‘getting violent’, and ‘why have you bought so much dynamite?’. I’m just guessing at the last one to be honest, he was drowned out by the sound of dynamite blowing up his kennel. Apparently I promised to build him a better one but I don’t remember saying that because I was really drunk.
The evening of the party was a magical affair. Mobutu didn’t get to see France, but I did at least make him feel as if he were there. I told him to close his eyes and then lead him to his present. When he opened his eyes, guess what he saw? That’s right dear reader, a genuine guillotine! He was fairly certain that a ‘genuine guillotine’ wouldn’t just be me trying to hit a melon with a sword, but he’s never been to school so what does he know?
Obviously there was a cake, and obviously I had filled it with strippers. Mobutu was probably expecting the strippers to burst out of the top, just like they had done when I arranged a cake for his brother’s funeral. He definitely didn’t think that I would have tunnelled my way through a foot of sponge cake to get to the strippers. I absolutely had, so there was a rather more embarrassing scene when one of them finally wriggled free and managed to escape out of the house. Frosting appears to make an excellent lubricant. I must remember that one. The result was an awful lot of cake for Mobutu to clean up.
The night wound down in the usual fashion: Mobutu crying and blaming me for the death of his family, and me trying to put a saddle on one of the strippers to ride them round the estate. Classic. Mobutu started saying he wanted to go home so I had to remind him that I’d already blown up his kennel. Cue more tears. Happy Birthday, you ungrateful bastard.