We don’t care that it is your birthday. Why would a waiter give a cheeseburger’s ass crack that it’s your birthday? But everyday someone comes in with a big shit-eating grin on their face looking like they got some big news to pop out and all it is is “It’s my birthday. Do I get anything for that?” Yeah, you get my heartfelt fucking congratulations, asswipe. I would like to see someone go into Macy’s and expect a free blouse or sweater set just because they were born. Hey, douchebag, everyone is born, it ain’t no big whoop. I worked at one corporate owned restaurant that made a real big deal about it. Let’s just call it Bendagain’s. Sorta like the Bennigan’s that used to be in Houston, Texas on Highway 59 and Shepherd. Man, when someone told us it was their birthday we had to make it a party. And we never asked for identification so you know most of them were making it up. As soon as they told us, we had to drop what we were doing and run to the freezer to get that birthday cake out. You just looked for the one that was the least frost bitten and least funky shaped. Then you had to ask all of your co-workers to come out and sing to the table when nobody has time to do it. And nobody gives flying flaming fajita. But we do it. Because this is how Birthday Boy wants to remember this momentous occasion: a bunch of angry, resentful strangers singing a horribly written and poorly performed Birthday song as he struggles to slice into a rock hard frozen cake that has about a year’s worth of ice on it. Yeah, that is special. Happy fucking birthday.