PILEâ„¢

The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do 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. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. His childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring he'd make meat helmets. When he was insolent he was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really