Jorge

I finally met with myself when I was on a train to Frankfurt, Germany back in the summer of 1856. My family traded me for a boxing kangaroo when the circus passed by our hometown. My father, an 82 year-old hypersomniac barber/buggy technician with a bum knee suddenly decided that a boxing kangaroo would make him rich beyond his wildest daydreams. What he didn't realize was that one actually had to feed kangaroos real food. They don't live off wood shavings and breast milk like we did. The circus was a fun ride. I immediately befriended the "fat lady" who in all actuality, was really a slightly underweight lady with a gargantuan mole on her the nose with a single jet black hair growing out of it. While traveling, I learned about life, and about death. The boxing kangaroo, I heard later, killed my father, married my mother, then offed himself with a rusty fork. And that's how I ended up here.