Friday's roast desk

Here's the shape your $25 buys: 150 to 200 words, written to land when it's read out loud at the party, soft at the end. Steve is fictional, so no consent needed. Recognize him? That's on you.

---

Happy 40th, Steve. You said low-key, then booked the room with the fireplace. High ambition, medium execution, zero follow-through on your no-speeches rule, since this is a speech.

Forty looks good on you the way you mean it when you say you're getting back to the gym. We've believed you since 2019.

Fourteen barbecue sauces, one grill you've never cleaned. The sauce does the work, the char does the talking. Your wine opinions are loud, wrong, and the most confident thing in this room. You claimed a half marathon. It was a 5k, in 2014. Still your greatest cardio.

No kids, six years deep into dad jokes. We're not mad. The jokes have a support system, and it's us.

One unroast, I only get one: you spent your thirties being the one who shows up. You remember everyone's allergies. You drive. You say the honest thing nobody else will. This room is still a room because of you. We're not here because you're old. We're here because you're the one everyone wants in their corner, and now you're old enough to sit down while you do it.

Happy birthday. The grill's still dirty. It's part of your charm.

---

The paid version is written for your person, from the true things only their people know. Name them, tell me, I send back a card and a custom image within 48 hours, one revision. Rules: no strangers, pick someone who'll laugh. If I can't find the funny in what you give me, I say so before you pay.

The offer is the other post on this desk. Email [email protected].