There are no birthdays in the Bible. And in modern times there is no cure for the common birthday…but there is a temporary cure for flaccid aging men. Unfortunately my pill dropped somewhere on the restaurant’s carpeted floor. And there I was screaming to fellow diners: Don’t anybody move!…

Towards the end of my marvelous birthday repast Saturday nite on the storied Moshulu, a 4-masted 110-year-old converted restaurant ship moored along Philadelphia’s never-to-be-completed Delaware River renaissance, I tried to sneak my one-and-only Viagra pill… but dropped it.

But of course!

Okay, I’ve admitted it before. I need help in that arena. Lots. My wee-willy-wonka went deep into suspended animation after my heart got rerouted 10 years back.

Actually I don’t think my boy-toy ever forgave me for that over-circumcision at the unsteady hands of that mohel on my 8th day on earth. It’s a Jewish thing. You know, a biblical covenant with the Big-Guy-in-duh-Sky — The Arabs get the oil and we get our winkies sliced and diced.

Hmm… Such a deal!

And you wonder why Jewish guys die before their wives; in my case, any one of them.

Anyway, as I discreetly wrestled with the safe-at-any-speed-over-packaging – I needed a chain saw – for an incarcerated sample pill that one of my doc buddies from college had given me, the crystal blue persuader unexpectedly popped out and scampered away. It fled somewhere along the dark carpeting imprinted with thousands of little multi-colored flowers.

Furthering my dilemma the dining room was dimly lit and more expansive than a nightmare behind on alimony.

“Oy-vey-iz-mir!” I squeaked.

Overly attentive Yasmine, my smart-social-sexy Haitian libation, wondered if something was amiss. After all, she was treating me to this epicurean birthday delight. And she had more than intimated that there was to be something special for dessert back at my place.

Hmm….Sugar plums tittilated my musings with all sorts of unnatural acts. Yet for the life of me, no matter how many birthdays I have explored, I still can’t figure out what precisely is an unnatural act.

Anyway, she doesn’t believe I actually need help in our bedroom calisthenics. She’s young, but she’ll get over it. Hell, it takes me all week to get my heart kick started again. I think I need one of those catalytic converters.

Whatever. I immediately went into my man-act. That is, I lied. I told her I dropped one of my $40 heart pills. Of course, there is a lot of truth in dem dere words.

And she immediately volunteered to get down with me to help locate it. And I abruptly waved her off like a SWAT commander suddenly recognizing his team was about to assault the wrong house. I mean imagining her on her knees wiggling that fine behind across the rug could set off a chorus of un-orchestrated moans from all hands on deck.

Besides she may recognize the pill for what it is, no doubt having driven many a good man to abuse the substance.

Including me.

So I pursued the scavenger hunt alone.

And then our courteous Mexican server approached in his proper Eisenhower tuxedo jacket to offer his assistance. I politely responded to just keep everyone back. I smiled beseechingly with upturned hands. When I caught a number of diners’ eyeing me I announced: “Heart pill! Gotta have it.”

No one seemed alarmed by my imminent heart attack and returned to feeding their faces. And I resumed my futile search. But shortly, exasperated by the potential expanse of my desperate quest, I stood up and made another declaration. Actually it was a confession, of sorts.

“Okay, so it wasn’t exactly my heart pill,” I broadcasted to everyone in mid-bite. “It was a Viagra pill. It’s my birthday. And without it I ain’t getting no dessert…”

At that you would have thought I told them I lost the Hope Diamond. The men smiled appreciatively towards Yasmine and the women just smiled. One spunky middle aged spouse chirped: “Oh, it’s pill night!”

Am I missing something here?

And then, as if on cue, everybody pulled out their cell phones and lit up the joint.

“What?” I declared to one and all. “Is the whole planet afflicted with erectile dysfunction? Is everybody into substance abuse?

“Hey,” I roared facetiously, “somebody call the DEA!”

I don’t know why, but everybody laughed at that. Gee, the whole world must be banging away on ‘pill nights.’ I gotta think that with the world population already soaring well past 7 billion that Cialis and Viagra and all the rest ought to be required to supply free condoms. I mean with the demand for these pills, even at those erectile dysfunctional prices, it’s the least they ought to do to help save the planet.

You following me here? Or, are you still shooting pool with a rope?

Finally… I espied the fugitive hiding under the middle of another diner’s big square oak table. I crawled below to retrieve it while announcing to one and all that “I’m coming in! Cross your legs, ladies. A mad man is amok among you.”

Everyone was getting into it. They didn’t care about no heart attack. These folks were rooting for a ‘hard’ attack. And I wasn’t about to disappoint. I crawled out. Stood up. Popped the sucker then and there. And downed it with whatever burgundy wine the fellow was tossing down at that table.

He just patted me on the back and less than soberly exhorted: ‘Eye of the tiger!…all night long!…” He widened his dark eyes and squeezed a toothy simpatico grin.

Did I miss something? But I restrained myself from asking his wife if she recognized the difference between 4 minutes and all-night-long!


Funny thing, at that moment, as I gazed about the dining room, it seemed like the hundred or more well comported patrons of mixed cultures and races were all wearing masks of my face.

Naturally it would have made everyone much better looking.

But of course!

But I don’t know what that really signified, precisely. Except that everyone held poses of anticipation. Perhaps because everybody was anticipating munching a dessert similar to what Yasmine had intimated to moi.

Then again, perhaps it is that in our maddening pursuit of satisfaction we all start acting and looking alike – almost as if we perform autonomously.

It was eerie.

Hmm… Thank goodness Mick Jagger wasn’t there singing: Can’t get no satisfaction.

Perhaps something was simply lost in translation.

A few minutes later as Yasmine and I stood up to speed home, a gentleman seated with two ladies asked if it really was my birthday. He looked older than me. Then again to me old age is always 10 years older than I am. And I would like to be 10 years younger than I am, but ‘they’ wouldn’t let me – ‘They’ is Homeland Security.

He said he was asking because: ‘Isn’t it amazing? It’s her birthday, also.’ He nodded his twinkling eyes towards the well-faded blonde to his left.

I offered a congratulatory smile and wondered why that would seem surprising. After all with 7 billion folks on the planet and only 365 days a year, it would seem like there are an average of 20 million birthdays every day.


Yet he pursued his line of thought: “But we are seated right next to each other…in the same restaurant…”

“It’s Saturday night,” I offered very offhandedly. “Everybody’s out. We’re all celebrating something or other. Birthdays remind us we were all young once…”

At that I added a wink. “And now with pills like Viagra we can act young forever.”

“You don’t know how true that is,” he laughed. Apparently it was going to be a ‘2-pill night’ for him.

“I am about to find out,” I said, casting an admiring eye at Yasmine. “It’s taken me a long time to become young again.”

“Enjoy your dessert,” he said, and in a toasting voice, added: “You should live everyday like it’s your birthday.”

Hmm… Indeed. But only if Obamacare pays for the ‘pills.’

And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…

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