Had meningitis of the mind not totally killed him in 1900, Oscar Wilde would be turning a very astonishing 155 today. That would make him the oldest, and probably wittiest man alive. But he’s not alive is he? He’s dead. Dead, damn it. Dead. Hence, we thought we’d get him a gift, so we sashayed around an airport making intellectual comments to customs officers, then discussing present ideas while they slammed us against the floor and strip searched us, and it wasn’t long before it boiled down to a toss up between some metal underpants, or a clip of Zach Galifianakis doing some witticisms of his own. In the end we got him both. Happy Birthday Oscar Wilde!