Listen up, assholes. My birthday is next week, and I expect a ton of sh*t from you people. Tons and tons of sh*t. An endless array of presents, the brilliance of which hasn’t been seen since Mr. T had that Saturday morning cartoon show where he solved mysteries with gymnasts.

On that note, the first present I require is Mr. T cereal. I know it hasn’t been produced since 1986, but figure it out, people. Find it. If I don’t wake up the morning of my birthday with Mr. T cereal already poured into my mouth, ready for chewing/breakfasting, I will throw a temper tantrum that will make Naomi Campbell’s temper tantrums feel like a free blowjob.

I have a large list of required gifts this year, and you will buy all of them for me. You will buy them for me or I will kill you dead. I desire and require the following items: $5,000 in unmarked and non-sequential bills, a unicorn that won’t make me look gay when I ride it, a banana tree that’s just tall enough that I can lean out my apartment window and take bananas from it, my column published in “The Atlantic Monthly” with all curse words intact, a signed art print of Huey Lewis’ “Fore” album cover without any fu#king snide commentary about it, and Lizzy Caplan and Kristen Bell. Just bring them to my apartment. I’ll handle the rest, using a little bit of Paul’s Charm.

Paul’s Charm is a drink made of lime Kool-Aid and sleeping pills.

I don’t want to hear any goddamn excuses this year. “But Paul, you want things that don’t exist” or “Those gifts are expensive, and you haven’t spoken to me since the third grade” or “You didn’t buy ME a gift for my birthday, so why should I get you one?” Stop it! Just STOP IT! I don’t want to hear any of this bullsh*t. If I hear one more person treading water on my birthday gifts, I’m going to asphyxiate you all like David Carradine.

Don’t improvise on my presents, either. I don’t want some stupid little hat you knitted. I don’t want some amusing shirt you found in Hot Topic. I don’t want a goddamn book about comedy writing authored by the Farrelly brothers. Don’t try to bake me cookies—I’m diabetic, you sick son of a bitch! All I want is the money, the unicorn, the banana tree, the art print, my filthy tripe in “The Atlantic,” and two kidnapped actresses. That’s it. It’s like six things. Stop being lazy.

Also, I want Whitney Cummings and Chelsea Handler’s sitcoms taken off the air, and their heads bashed with a mallet. Also, I want Leonardo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to appear at my birthday party. He is my favorite turtle.

Am I being unreasonable? Probably. I live in Hollywood. Creating unreasonable drama is what we do. Get used to it, because this current generation of “people” grew up idolizing Snooki and the Kardashians, and once they enter the work force, you and everyone else in the world are probably going to hang yourselves.

So why not get me some presents before you off yourself? I know some of you may be strapped for cash. That’s why I’ve come up with a few simpler ideas for presents (notice the plural). For instance, let me play one game of Call of Duty where 12-year-olds aren’t allowed. I just want to get one kill without receiving a message titled “Faggot” or “Faggot!!!!!” or sometimes the more Anglo-Norman “Fagget!”

Here’s another great, simple gift idea: find me a job. Any job. And so help me God, don’t say Arby’s, because I’ve applied there seven times and they always look at me funny and say, “Aren’t you that guy we banned for drinking horsey sauce straight from the spout?” and I say no, and then they take out security camera footage of it.

More cost-effective ideas: how about a $10,000 gift certificate to White Castle, or a $5 gift certificate to your sister? Perhaps you could not talk to me for a week, or let me play games on my cellphone when I’m supposed to be listening to you. Maybe you could help me get run over by a cab so I could live off the settlement money and never have to interact in a social setting again.

Pick and choose, mix and match. I don’t care. Just get me some goddamn presents. Clearly, I deserve them. I’m handsome (but not TOO handsome), I’m smart (but not TOO smart), I smell like a brand new Macbook Pro, and I don’t roll up my jeans. Those credentials must be worth SOMETHING in this world. They have to, otherwise the universe might as well just take a dump and start over from scratch.

Get me something. Do it now. Then wake up tomorrow and get me more stuff. Then give it to me and immediately leave. I’m 33 years old and this is what I want. This is what everyone who is 33 years old wants. Give me cool stuff, leave, and let me get drunk alone while watching Japanese samurai movies. That’s it. Happy birthday to Mr. Paul. Good morning, good afternoon, good night.