Sparkling Wit

“Stop being so childish.”

“But, mama, I am a child.”

“Churlishness! When was your first birthday? You‘re at least seven!”

“You don’t mean my last birthday?”

“If I meant that, you’d be dead.”

“A birthday is continuous though, ain’t it? What with it coming every year and all.”

“…your father doesn’t have a birthday, not anymore. Thursday was his last birthday, it was. He lived that last birthday until three days later.”

“But, even if he don’t celebrate it breathing, the date still stands as a birthday.”

“Collywobbles! Dead men have no birthdays.”

The epitaph on his now-cold grave stands as this, “Coriander Chime. Lived from his first birthday to his last. His last being some time on a Thursday, probably after some utterly uneventful tea. His wordplay will be gravely missed…”