Keith Urban Dictionary

So. Keith Urban Dictionary ate my cake.

Yeah, that’s his full name—Keith. Middle name Urban. Last name Dictionary. Don’t ask, his parents were “quirky.”

Everyone calls him Ironjaw though, because he’s got these massive chrome braces that look like he bit down on a car engine. You can hear him chew from three ZIP codes away. He's like if a stapler and a wood chipper had a baby and sent it to public school.

Anyway—it was my birthday. I had this gorgeous, three-tier, triple-fudge cake with edible glitter and little fondant dachshunds on top. It took two days to make. I left it on the table while I went to light a candle in the bathroom for ambiance. Ambiance!

I come back and Keith Urban Freakin' Dictionary is halfway through it. Frosting on his face. Glitter in his braces. Just full-goblin mode. I yell, “KEITH!” and he goes, “Oh, was this important?”

I was fuming. Shaking. I literally said, “I hope someone kills you with a bazooka,” and you know what? Sometimes the universe listens.

Because that’s when TYRONE DAVIS—my ex—crashes through the window like a GTA character. Shirtless. Bleeding slightly. Holding a literal bazooka. He yells, “PAYBACK TIME, IRONJAW!”

Then BOOM. Gone. Keith Urban Dictionary is now Keith Urban Debris.

But it’s not over. Because the blast set my couch on fire. My parrot flew away screaming profanities. The smoke alarm is melting. And somehow the bazooka explosion triggered a hidden panel in the floor, revealing my extremely illegal cocaine stash (long story), which is now exposed just as the cops show up—

Because apparently Tyrone led them here “by accident.”

So now I’ve got no cake, a flaming living room, a dead semi-friend with braces in every corner, sirens screaming outside, and Tyrone Davis back in my life with a bazooka and no sense of boundaries.

What a shitty birthday.