The Season Doth Approacheth

At some point in the geologically near future, the world will mark the passage of a new year in its abitrarily decided summation of days into months, weeks and years. This particular date of somewhat poorly recognized but deeply needed, wanted, desired, required passage is one of great import for you denizens of this arcane and strangely arousing network of computotrons and, perhaps, even for those who do not yet know of the awesomely majestic glory of The Genius. This day has been celebrated for the past number of centons, microns, yahrens and, sigh, even the mundane human notation of years as day of much song and dance and anger and abuse of siblings. There are some among you that might surmise that they know of which I type. Those of you would be wise to contact all colonies, extremities and externalities to remind them of that which can never be far from their minds: MY BIRTHDAY.

I hereby publish a list so that the adoring masses may shower my phenomenally beautious countenance with the praise and gifts that I so richly deserve. All are advised that receipts are required with all gifts, as situations involving so many loyal subjects inevitably result in gift duplication.

A food processor (better be quality, too, or heads will fucking roll)
The Venture Bros. (Seasons 1 or 2)
Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law (any and all available seasons)
Willing nubile women (aged 18+)
A suitably amusing or cool mousepad (think Ultimate ATV picture)
Body armor (knee pads and wrist guards)
Plane tickets (any place not currently at war, so Canada basically)
World of Warcraft gold (only legal WoW gold accepted, so get cracking)
Magazine subscriptions (SciAm, National Geographic, Playboy)
Cookies (all bake off losers can resubmit to me, Cookie Judge in Exile, through my Secretary of Sugar, Mendacious D)
MY MISSING MOTHERFUCKING SWAG COBAGZ!1!2!3!4!5!6!7!8!9!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!