Sweet crap on a spike, it’s Rico’s birthday!
That’s right loveers, today commemorates the moment my beloved partner in judgement was spat from the loins of the woman who, if things were fair, would be more famous than Mary herself. I mean, sure, Jesus may be the Son of God but could he drink eight litres of boxed claret in one ad break? Cause grown Liquor Barn attendants to whisper his name at staff parties?
As if, Jesus! You may have risen from the dead once, but Rico rises with a hangover that could eat its way through the Earth’s core EVERY DAY! And still manages not to pee on the toilet seat.
Rico, I adore you with every fiber of my toxic being. You are my sweet, eternally drunk muse and if I could freeze any moment in time it would be sitting next to you on the couch with the Dog at our feet complaining that we’re too cheap for a three-seater.
xo unto eternity