Should you be looking for the biggest buffoon, possibly on Earth, certainly in the Western Hemisphere, you need look no further than the absolute dunce who has penned the very words you are reading. The consequences of my forgetful nature have led me to my familiar Hell. Once again, Thomas Edison’s birthday really snuck up on me.

I certainly wish I hadn't used all my PTO this week. I had planned to plan so many amazing things that I never got around to. (Getting electrocuted in the Menlo Park mall on the big man’s birthday is obviously on my bucket list, but I suppose 2022 is not going to be the year I cross that one off.) All that PTO could have really come in handy any number of times when I was hospitalized with the novel Coronavirus. I'm vehemently pro-vax, but I refuse to get it because it doesn't feel fair to Thomas. If he didn't have a chance to get vaccinated against this thing, neither should I.

Besides, the mighty Thomas didn't need any vaccine to create his greatest invention: immortality. Every time I tell someone this, they begin frothing at the mouth, clamoring for the secrets of this forbidden knowledge. I always wink and reply, “You want to live forever? Just create one of these.” Then I pull out my electric pen. After explaining what it is, they usually get the gist of what I'm trying to say.

In recent years, you've probably noticed the gallant Thomas' popularity waning while the dreadful Nikola Tesla's rose. It should come as no surprise that I deplore Tesla, the so-called “futurist” (give me a break). Little tip for Freakola; you’re not playing rock and roll. You’re doing science experiments. Lose the mustache.

Let's just say I wish that Mr. Tesla had “gone the way of the elephant,” if you catch my drift…. And, not for nothing, I wouldn’t let my pigeon near that guy.

Edison’s fall can be attributed to one of the many injustices in this country: anti-New Jersey prejudice. The US does not want to see someone from the Garden State succeed. Did you know they call us “The Armpit of the Nation?” What a vile, loathsome thing to say. A comment that no doubt comes from those lacking the intelligence to conjure an image without resorting to vulgarity. Leave the “armpit” and “toilet talk” to the true master of the gross-out gag: New Jersey native, Mr. Kevin Smith.

Perhaps the only larger cretin than Tesla (the mustachioed menace) is Benjamin Franklin, the vagrant everyone is always confusing with brave Thomas. Only a fool concerns themselves with kites and keys. A respectable individual works in the laboratory, inventing things like the mimeograph. Pay attention to the person who wants to see both far away and close up. There’s something inside them they don’t want to look at.

But let us not sully our tongues with talk of those demons anymore. Today is the day we celebrate Thomas, Tamer of the Spark. I may have missed my window to spend the holidays in illustrious Edison, New Jersey (no doubt every hotel within a 15-mile radius of Metuchen is all booked up by now), but I can always throw a rock directly through an LED headlight.

Some may accuse me of being overly critical of these new light bulbs. It's true, I have my bias for Classic Coke. Looking at a picture of your smartest son under incandescent lighting is like listening to your favorite album on vinyl. It just feels right. You can’t get that with LEDs. Or halogens, for that matter (the use of which just screams fuckboy).

And I would rather you shoot me in the face with a gun than spend one second under those sickening fluorescent “lights” (to even call them “lights” is an insult to all things illuminant). Anything that must be observed under a light source that doesn't utilize a heated filament just isn't worth seeing. To imply otherwise would be disrespectful to the man whose shoulders these other lightbulbs are standing on.

As the inventor of the phonograph, I don’t think it’s controversial to call Thomas Edison the godfather of hip hop. It might sound crazy, but that’s how I know he’s dancing up in Heaven right now. Happy Birthday, Mr. Edison. I may have forgotten it this year, but I know a place where every day is your birthday: my heart.

Also, if anyone is reading this and is comfortable with a Vertigo-type deal but for Thomas Edison, please reach out.