Twenty nine times previously in your life you've been told happy birthday. The first couple of times you probably giggled maniacally and smeared a cupcake everywhere. From then it turned into a gleeful childhood orgy of presents, and then, by your mid teens, into awkward experiments of just what you could do with alcohol. And then soon it meant you could drive. And then vote. And then you turned 21 and somehow ended up in another state a day and a half later wondering just what the hell happened to your pants.

Not long after, college was suddenly done, and there was real life staring you in the face. But you partied like a rockstar, became a successful chef, met and married a hot wife. You have carped the crap out of every diem that's come your way.

But now you're 30. I cannot in good conscience wish you happy birthday, because it would be a brutal, painful reminder that you're old.

Diapers are still a few years away; senility slightly closer. Your bowel control should last maybe another decade or two, your gross motor skills should hold out for a few more years. Fine motor skills, maybe some months, and I have it on good authority that your libido is already waning.

I want you to know that T&O will be there for you. When you can no longer stand, we'll help you. When you can no longer crawl, we'll carry you. When you need help reaching something off the top shelf, someone tall will help. When you can't wipe your own ass, Funky will be there to do it. When you no longer have the coordination to swallow that little blue pill, Gatyr will pull on the rubber gloves and take one for the team.

It's been a good ride, and you've been truly inspiring. May your descent into jabbering incomprehensibility be fast and painless. We love you.

Dude, you're my hero for the next five minutes.