The details of my life are quite
inconsequential.Very well, where should I begin? My
father was a relentlessly self-
improving boulangerie owner from
Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy
and a penchant for buggery. My mother
was a fifteen-year-old French
prostitute named Chloe with webbed
feet. My father would womanize, he
would drink, he would make outrageous
claims, like he invented the question
mark. Sometimes he would accuse
chestnuts of being lazy. A sort of
general malaise that only the genius
possess and the insane lament. My
childhood was typical. Summers in
Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring
we'd make meat helmets. If I was
insolent, I was placed in a burlap
bag and beaten with reeds. Pretty
standard, really. At the age of twelve
I received my first scribe. At the
age of fifteen, a Zoroastrian named
Vilma ritualistically shaved my
testicles. There really is nothing
like a shorn scrotum. At the age of
eighteen, I went off to evil medical
school. From there...____________________________________________________
_____
"You smell that? Do you smell that? Napalm, son. Nothing
else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed, for twelve hours. When it was all over I walked up. We didn't find one of 'em, not one stinkin' dink body. The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like - victory.
Someday this war is gonna end."
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