Of Horus

My brother once commented on Kirk Bussey by saying that Kirk "doesn't really seem to say much."
Which is true.
But I told my brother that Kirk is easily one of the funniest people that I know. And you would swear he never tries.
If I found out after dying (we're entertaining the idea of an afterlife here, for a moment. My apologies to the particularly surly atheists) that one of the friends I grew up with had been an angel all along, Bussey would be my first guess.

It's his birthday. I am late. Appetizers have already been ordered, prepared, and delivered. I have just gotten off of work an hour and a half beforehand, you see.
We are in Swiss Chalet. A lot of families eat at Swiss Chalet. We are fortunately seated away from them.
Our waiter/server (whatever) is very good. I tell him I want only dessert. He informs me that I want the chocolate eruption cheesecake.
Perhaps I do. I have a penchant for cheesecake, after all, as any friend of mine worth his or her salt would know. Furhter, My rapture for chocolate has grown considerably since my time in Banff, which I contribute to great quantities of refer and individually wrapped brownies always being available at the 24 hour Mac's on Wolf Street.
So, perhaps I do. I peruse the fattness menu some more as everyone patiently waits.
The balls on this guy.
He says, "You want the chocolate eruption. I already wrote it down for you." Then he shows me his little pad thingy. And he has. I am so impressed that I agreed with him. This is how many men talk women into sex, I think.
"Of course you want to sleep with me. I bought condoms earlier today and a flask* of peach schnapps, see?"
None of this has anything to do with Bussey. I just wanted to mention that gutsy move with the cake. I'm going to marry that man, someday. Greg. Greg is the one I'm going to marry. I don't know his last name, but his eyes are blue. He works evening shifts.

Later, we are in Bussey's apartment. Men are sitting about. There is another cake. For Bussey.
Some of us suggest he cut the cake, make a crumb, and tell us who he is into**.
Bussey: "Why do I have to cut the cake?"
Us: "Because it's your birthday, b'y!"
Bussey: "Shouldn't someone else do it for me, then?"
Us: "No man! You got to make a crumb and tell us who your girlfriend is."
Bussey (as he gets out of his chair. more to himself than to us): "I think I'll get Miranda to cut it."
You would have to have grown up with him to get it. But Bussey sees and knows everything. He was likely a pharaoh in a past life.
One of the good pharaohs who used slaves as infrequently as possible.

*Flask is Newfie nomenclature for a 375ml bottle of liquor. For anyone who may not know.
**Is this birthday practice done everywhere? Or is this a Newfoundland thing as well?