A Joyous Birth Anniversary to You Oh Grandest of Luciferous Logolepsians

As the sun rises and we wake upon a new day, we are reminded that there are reasons to celebrate and to honor and to wish good tidings upon our fellow man and it is in this spirit and with the knowledge and foresight that this particular person to whom I wish to proclaim good cheer, has himself, an unforgettable style and an unforgivable tendency to take two and a half pages to describe the knocking of a hand upon a door, that I say these simple words extolling the life of this man and on this most auspicious occasion of the anniversary of his birth let it be said to him by one and all and received by his own two ears so that he may feel the joy with which it is proclaimed and feel the warmth inside himself that has sprung forth from his fellow man, ridden across the air and settled in his own ears. So to you, Mr. Charles Dickens, you man so lacking in brevity, you author of great voluminous works. Works that could be just as wondrous even if pared to a mere two hundred pages. Works that, if they had lost half their girth of verbs and adjectives would still posses within them the rich and warm characters and settings of a by gone era. Let it be known throughout the land, that today, this fine day upon which we have all awoken, is the anniversary of the birth of a great man, a fine author and a man, whom if he were alive today and words were fuel, would have a carbon footprint of verbiage unparalleled even by the lights of Las Vegas. So, raise a glass on high and let us all say, a good and Happy Day of Birth to you good sir.

 

 

 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities