ME: The details of my life are quite inconsequential.
YOU: Oh no, please, please, let's hear about your childhood.
ME: 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. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the 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. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian woman named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.
YOU: You know, we have to stop.
You: On a different subject, don't you have any secrets?
Me: Okay. I have a vestigial tail. It's more of a nub, really. The spine just goes on a little longer than it should. Also, I've dabbled. I mean, perform fellatio once and you're a poet, twice and you're a homosexual. I remember once I was being fisted by Sebastian Cabot- but here's where the story gets interesting. He was lactose-intolerant. He could eat red meat all night long, but one sip of milk and it was gastric hell. And I remember we were caught in flagrante delicto by Henry Kissinger, and you can imagine my humiliation at having Hank hear me say, "Mr. French, no teeth." One of my greatest disappointments is that I never became a song and dance man. I could have been a quadruple threat, kind of like a despotic Ken Barry. Dancer, singer, actor, and I would possess nuclear weapons, the latter being the most threatening of the four. I once sat on a bus and tried to will myself a menstrual cycle. All I ended up with was a sense of failure and a mild neuralgia in my incisor teeth and perhaps a grudging respect for the weaker sex. I love toe cleavage. For the most part I distrust dogs. I slept in a horse once. It was quite roomy. On second thought, it was the Ritz. I named my left testicle 'piss' and my right testicle 'vinegar'. I wrote "It's Raining Men", or so the Christmas babies told me. Oh yes, I also made a Marzipan voodoo effigy of The Fonze while I was in coma after smoking some Peruvian prayer hash, but who at the end of the day can honestly say they haven't done that?
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