I just figured out how I will murder you.
Don't be alarmed by this revelation. I am not doing it for selfish reasons, for the pleasure of not having you walk the earth will give to me and many, many others. I'm just doing it so you will no longer age, embarrassing yourself as you become more senile, fragile, corny, and generally wack. I want to kill you out of love.
I'll invite you to my next birthday party, where I myself will gracefully glide across the threshold into my forties. It will be December then, a chilly wonderously wintery Detroit December. Many of our other friends will be in attendance as the DJ plays my favorite hip hop. We'll likely be at La Casa De Habana, the cigar bar I love so much.
I will beckon for you to join me outside, to get away from the smoke and the din of assembled revelers, under the guise of having a heart to heart chat with my dearest friend. We will look up at the starry, dark Downtown sky and marvel at the chill we've both experiencing for our 40th year.
I'll begin to toss my hat up in the air. You'll wonder what I'm doing, but I'll keep talking about the Lions or some chick at the party with a giant ass and a tight dress. You'll dumbly ignore the growing intensity of the tosses while acknowledging the ineptitude of our local sports team and the hook on Linda Sue. During this time I will succeed in dislodging a giant icicle.
As the icicle falls, I will catch it, and while you are blathering away I will shove that icicle through your jacket and into your pitifully aging heart. I'll drag you into the foyer and sit your body in a chair. It'll be assumed you're just tired from all the partying, so people will let you "sleep". In the meantime the space heater I'll have set up near you will work to melt the icicle.
The murder weapon will melt while I'm mingling with my guests. No witnesses, no murder weapon. The perfect crime.
Happy Birthday, Three!