I was birthed on a gun boat in South Bolivia. Indeed my introduction to the world was quite unconventional. A faint tincture of condescension within turned more distinct at the age of three when my left testicle was sliced from my body by a protruding branch during my pursuit of the elusive short tailed chinchilla. Amazingly enough it grew back fully functional, except for an indelible scar in the shape of a maple leaf. To this day my left ball constricts inside its scarred sack during any performance of “Oh Canada” and certain Brian Adams love ballads. I was deemed the village pariah when I was six for destroying the weavings depicting demagogues and zealots with bananas and rotten lettuce. I became even more distanced from the village when I was unable to contain a maniacal laughter at any mention of “Lake Titicaca.” It didn’t sit well with the natives thus leading to my deportation. My acerbic wit was nurtured by the cab driver named Bacalaca Daca who spoke of strict monotheism and his kinship to goats, during our 13,000 mile journey to the quaint town of Rigby, Idaho- the birthplace of television. It was here where my fondness for barefooted jaunts in the meadows turned to indignation while stepping on a rabid shrew and falling into a deep coma. Awoken by a howl, I found my lips wrapped around the blistered teat of a wild dog. After filling up, I bid my foster bitch adieu and set forth with dour determination, sparked only by a stomach full of warm dog milk. After vomiting repeatedly for the next week and a half, I met a man known only as Flob. He taught me the things that every young boy needed to learn at such a vulnerable age including a vehement work ethic, catharsis, and stern invective towards dervish persuasion. Flob then passed away before I could tell him I really didn’t care for him that much. My fascination with the inane led me to visit Provo, UT and the shit trail left behind by one Joseph Smith. It was apparent to me then that not all martyrs see divinity, but at least he tried. During puberty, I became quite hirsute in which I was castigated repeatedly by less bristly bullies and pretentious imps. At 15, my skin shed in reptilian fashion leaving behind the coarse hair that had once cloaked my body. Many would have been left prostrate at the complete transformation of their identity, but I remained resilient and hitchhiked to Santa Monica where I performed numerous renditions of “Every Woman in the World” by Air Supply. I was beaten profusely on more than one occasion. Taking on part time work as a janitor at the Rand Graduate School of Policy Studies, I blended in with the students and received an education while falling in love with a daft rube named Blenda. Our love fizzled when she exposed her naked body to me and revealed a single breast in the middle of her chest bearing the shape of a pentacle. Although, it was a large breast, I had to leave her in search of a less authoritative state of consciousness.