So there was this old hag with a horn on her head, and she was on an airplane, and she was flying to meet her kissie friend, sailing high above the largest ocean on planet earth, and she was seated next to this man who she had tried to start conversations, but the only thing she had really heard him say was to order his Bloody Mary. She was sitting there and she was reading this really arduous magazine article about a third world country that she couldn’t even pronounce the name of, and she's feeling very bored and despondent. And then suddenly there was this huge mechanical failure and one of the engines gave out, and they started just falling thirty-thousand feet, and the pilots on the microphone and he’s saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh my god... I'm sorry” and apologizing. And she looks at the man and says “Where are we going?” and he looks at her and he says “We’re going to a party. It’s a birthday party. It’s your birthday party. Happy birthday darling. We love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.”
This is a couple hours early, the big day is Monday. And I do mean "big day."
Happy 30th Gramma!
I thought I replied to this, Gunther, but looking back I realize that it was one of those instances where I thought I did something when in actuality, I was drunk.
It's also one of those instances where I think I'm almost able to place the reference you're making, but only almost so the idea that that story came out of your evil brain is a little bit unsettling.
Anyway, that's more or less exactly what happened on my birthday. You fuckin' creepster.