#05232025

🎉 Happy Birthday, H. Jon Benjamin! 🎉

They say you've got one voice, just low and sublime, But somehow it fits every role, every time! You're Bob with a burger, you’re Archer with flair, You're even a can of beans—with existential despair.

From grill flipper dad to a suave superspy, You mumble and mutter while bullets fly by. You teach awkward teens as a coach with no clue, And somehow we love every version of you.

Your voice could sell mustard, or start a small war, Could narrate a nature show—or slam a screen door. You once dropped a jazz album (on keys? really? Why?) And we listened, amazed, though it made babies cry.

So here’s to you, Jon, with your flat vocal tone, Who sounds like he’s perpetually done on the phone. May your birthday be weird in the best kind of way— Like a Belcher grand opening…or a spy cabaret.

A Birthday Ode to Richard Ayoade

Oh Richard, dear Richard, you stylish old bean, In specs and sharp blazers, you’re always pristine. With hair like a cloud that’s been mildly annoyed, And humour so dry it could dehydrate Freud.

Today is your birthday, so let’s all be bold, And celebrate you as if we’ve been told That sarcasm’s currency, awkward is gold, And deadpan delivery never gets old.

You hosted the travel show, roamed near and far, Yet made every country feel drier than par. With celebs in tow and your sceptic’s eye, You wandered the globe with a muttered “Oh my.”

From IT Crowd's basement you rose to great heights, Mocking tech jargon and office plights. “Have you tried turning it off and on?” —A line so immortal, it’s practically gone Into British slang, like "naff" or "blimey", Though you said it like a man who finds pleasure slimy.

You direct films too, with peculiar grace, Where no one quite smiles and no one gives chase. You make Wes Anderson look like a rave, And we, your fans, behave quite depraved In quoting your lines in queues and in pubs, Like nerds in a cult, or hipster fan clubs.

So here’s to you, Richard, you verbose delight, May your bow ties stay crooked, your prose ever tight. May your tea never steeps beyond optimal steeping, May awkward encounters keep happily creeping.

On this, your grand day, we offer you cheer, A pint, a sarcastic nod, and maybe a sneer. For no one does birthday with less of a fuss, Than a man who treats life like a poorly-run bus.

Happy Birthday, you gloriously awkward king, Now awkwardly bow, and pretend not to grin.

I say I said it, didn’t i?

what a bold faced fuckin lie sitting on a fault line it’ll break at any time

haven't made up my mind keep thinking I do and then the tears run down my cheeks before I can hit send.

i put it off again, don't want to dim your light, check the time

0000, 05232025

i say goodnight-- why is it when I’m not in the same room I wish I could kiss you? I’m so confused