Happy 42nd birthday to my little brother, 32-Ounce, who doesn't read this blog. He was done birthed in a small tarpaper shack in Kentucky. The question of which of us was delivered to our parents by gypsies is hotly disputed (each of us claims that honor). I don't remember a basket on the porch, so it must've been me.
32-Ounce earned his name on my 23rd birthday, when he puked 32 ounces of Nasty Bo back into the Keyhole (his other nickname) of a 16-ounce beer can as we rode a chartered bus back from an Orioles game. Until his wife, Sil, birthed the Crown Princes, it was his greatest accomplishment evahr. It remains the only one of his greatest hits that didn't involve boffing or fondling someone. Or something, but that little bit of obtuse involves secrets I won't tell outside of the fambly.
Salud, Baby Bro.
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