He Gave the world such a wonderful gift, and today he turns 100.

That's the way to attend all meetings.

After experimentation with the ergot fungus Dr Hofmann succeeded in synthesising ergobasine. This was followed by experimentation on the central Lysergic Acid component shared by other ergotic alkalines; though unaware of its properties at the time the 25th synthesised molecule arising from this experimentation, Lysergic Acid diethylamide was the basis of the hallucinogen that we know and love so heartily. No frogs were harmed in the making of this product (aside from the one I once attempted to catch so we could be friends).

Initially I was encouraged, the frog's wide throated emissions had an almost sympathetic similarity to my father's expostulations upon the insistent, engulfing matter in question: that of getting an actual "job". I had high hopes thereof promulgating a mutually beneficial discourse. These hopes proved intially well founded; my father and "teh frogGG!1!xo" (as my net-literate sister had wittily named him) found that they had much mutual interest, and agreed heartily upon the subject of "the birch". Teh frogGG!1!xo was particularly vocal upon the subject of "the fucking dirty gypsies", my father nodded downwardly. We took this as a sign of approval.

Problems first arose when, in honour of the fine festival of Easter, my mother baked an eight hundred foot rabbit consisting mostly of sweetened pastry strips. The frog, a devout Protestant, led us to believe via a systematic mixture of swellings, croaks and increased posture that this offended him (we later discovered via a mutual friend that he was a strictly Calvinist frog! My, were our faces as red as his poisonous belly, or what?!?!). He used his ill-developed front legs to drag the words "idolatrous papists LOL" in the patch of damp sand which only the night before had been dumped before our devoutly sandless and utterly landlocked household by a disgruntled tradesman.

From here on out things went from bad to worse. Soon we realised that frogs and humans couldn't actually communicate, and from there it was only a short step for even my parents to deduce that I had been hidden behind an overly large rock bun for several weeks, ventriloquising my dissatisfaction through a bemused amphibian. I am now written out of my father's fabulous will, and I hope you're happy, you bastards.

As regards the particulars of your fall from paternal grace, and with no lack of charity towards your predicament, I simply ask that you consider the feelings of a frog who, knowing that his fate has been predestined by an omniscient God, finds himself not only a poisonous amphibian amongst bipedal simians, but idolatrous papists to boot. This cannot bode well for frogGG!1!xo and must, in his small nerve ganglion of a brain, signify that he has not been chosen to receive God's grace but will, in his afterlife, dwell in eternity in a miasma of incense, an endless tedium of meatless Fridays, and the acute ignominy of being unable to confess his little green sins to a drunken, closeted, homosexual pedophile wearing an ill-fitting black dress. On the other hand, at least he hasn't been boarding with those namby-pamby C of E trimmers.

Also, despite the ostentatious lists and fancy parchment, your father is no position to bequeath to you anything other than his genetics and a lifetime of painstaking parental care. It's your mother's will that impresses all of us.

Seriously.