Frank

I'm a 24-year-old muscular male with *tight* abs, cut forearms, large nipples, and a solid gold pinkie ring. I'm inter-continental, baby, and I've been keeping it real since day one. Right now, I'm cruising the New Jersey turnpike in a lipstick red Jag XJ-6 convertible, top down, scanning the police frequencies while stirring a very dry Stoli martini with my prehensile tail. Oh, and dictating this "about me" to my voluptuous secretary, Ms. Rhonda. We don't know what Ms. Rhonda's gender or sexual orientation is, but I'd say it's right on.My greatest life experience has to be a night in Cairo with two pounds of methedrine suppositories, playing Chess while having my aural canal stimulated by a bagpipist covering Jimi Hendrix licks. History, having taught us such Arabian pleasures, is surely mankind's last, best hope. But I don't really have a work history, per se, apart from a brief, misguided stint as a blacksmith and tanner in the Old Sturbridge Village.Building on a Ph.D. in biorhythmic electrophysics and a Masters in the metaphysics of Kantian table tennis, I have mastered numerous automatic and semi-automatic weapons. I'm trained in 18 styles of "flying-tiger-snapping-dragon" tae kwon do, and am a master of Ebonics. My lyrical stylings draw their inspiration from the 13th-century Sufi poet Rumi, and the bass line of most of the Conway Twitty albums. This, clearly, makes me invincible.My current body build allows me to critically injure most adversaries, even before I've begun to fight. This is accomplished by a high-pitched squeal, and a roaring Jon Bon Jovi guitar solo. I can then begin to do my damage in earnest, leading my interlocutors down a path to inevitable nihilism, despair, and finally suicide.It might be too much to hope, but I am seeking an heir for my multi-billion dollar business exporting terror and fried chicken to the Third World. Short of that, I really would like a cigarette.I can often be found WoWing young ladies at a hotspot just off of Highway 101 in Stanford, California. I do open mic and a very classy striptease featuring bongos and the melodic soothing of Leonard Cohen's greatest hits. I feel that this can be expanded to a 40-man Viking raid on the Harvard undergraduate dormitories, setting sail from my secret boat lair in Hyanisport.Fire can't touch me, particularly after five of these fine martinis and an enema from Ms. Rhonda. All cleared up and ready to rock in the free world. I have a satellite in geo-synchronous orbit over most of the Midwest. This allows for a quick connection while ordering my signature Starbucks triple-latte with a splash of vermouth. I also have dialup.