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Although we don’t usually give it much thought, life as we have come to enjoy it is based on certain unbreakable agreements that govern our interactions with the countless other formations of energy and matter which fill our universe.

Gravity, for example, never ceases to embrace us to the bosom of the earth, photons continue their emigration from our dearest sun, and even Canada remains content to occupy the darkened tundra of Extreme Northern America, conveniently out of the way of the rest of the continent.

Yet we remain happily ignorant of the many thankless treaties that make life livable until one of them goes horribly awry.  Take for instance the Ominous Comma Household Ban on Birthday Surprise Parties.

I know what you’re thinking, because I’m thinking it too. After the countless promises, contracts and oaths extracted at length from the Hot Comma Momma, promising never again to smite my personage with stealth festivities, there is no possible way she would break her most sacred word to me and strike terror in my unsuspecting heart yet again.

Oh…but she would.

Your author caught by suprise again

TerrorStrike -Hot Momma style

Although my wife may be entirely without honor or shame, she is not without an email list or the ability to fill my house with a surprisingly stealthy horde of well-wishers.

my house filled with suprise guests

The Horde – in theaters this summer

Among the many notable individuals who came out to celebrate my misfortune was frequent Comma commenter Jeolmstead as well as the manly DangerCouch crew who are never shy about eating cake or recalling awkward film-related experiences.

And as special treat there was even a defenseless creature upon which to vent any excess surprise-induced adrenaline.

Your author beating the crap out of a helpless pinata

“I’ve got your surprise right here”

I really don’t know how to thank my darling or her many co-conspirators, except perhaps to sign them each up for a year of flognative therapy with the newly rediscovered Doctor Harold Toboggans.

This of course won’t do much to cure them of their neurotic stealth-compulsion, but it definitely go a long way toward making me feel more like a well balanced member of society.1

And what better gift could I ask for than that?

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  1. I refer of course to the Society of Avenged Quandragenarians of which I am a charter member.