You are going to have just the most 21st-Century scrapbook ever. Your whole life thus far, or at least bits of it, has/have been the subject of your dad's writing. And although I'm sure someday this will totally mortify you (and send you to some manner of psychotherapy that we losers in 2005 can only imagine), some other, later day you'll be glad because it's really good writing. But whichever way it goes, or when, hey. He's your dad. Can you blame him? At least it's not, say, a closet jammed to the rafters with M. Small crop art.
I've known your dad for approximately 20 years, and your mom for not much less than that. I say 'approximately' partly because I honestly can't recall the exact dates or really years, and partly because it's too freakin' weird to contemplate being this old. Someday you and I will almost certainly talk about the stupid stuff your dad and I (and to a much lesser extent, your mom) said, thought, and did when we were "your age." These stories will not be exclusively for your amusement -- because we did learn a thing or two, here and there -- but I promise right now that I won't be mad if you totally miss my point and just laugh yourself stupid instead. That's some quality uncle-style fun for me, right there.
Anyway, soon enough you'll be able to wield a computer yourself, and whether your money is on genetics or environment, your kung-fu will very probably become very mighty. Please use this power for good, as we have tried to, and not for evil. That said, feel free to even the odds. Post whatever stories you can about your pop's misadventures and weird habits, or any photos you have of him mowing the lawn in black socks, loafers, and bermuda shorts. I can help, if you want.
Also, and don't tell the Internet I said this, but you're way cuter than the kid over at Dooce.com. Happy Birthday, electro-boy!