I remember when I was a kid, about 5 years old, it was really hard to crack eggs. There would always be some shell pieces in the egg white and everyone would be really angry. Once, while helping mother making a cake, I cracked the eggs and there were so many shells that the people at her swingers party cut their mouths and complained that they would never visit our household again. My father liked that since he hates people.
People always say that life was so simple then. But I remember trying to tie my shoes and it took forever! Making my school lunch was almost as confusing as mixing mother’s favorite drink: a harvey wall-banger. “Make mother another Harvery Wallbanger or this empty glass won’t be the only thing I bang against the wall!” Come to think of it, feeding my fish, let alone remembering that I even had a fish, was one of the hardest things ever! My dad used to beat me something vicious for that.
So I’m pretty pleased with being grown up. Things are much simpler now. Look Ma, no shells in my scrambled eggs!
But what did they expect? I was a child… and I had hooks for hands.
I was birthed in a staggeringly large, oppressively smelly barn near Chichester-on-Stratvain-on-Bard. There, in squalor, I was raised by several chickens and an old mule named Sherbet on Nyles of Navingham. His name was ridiculous, of course, being that he had never even been to Navingham. My negligent whore of a mother, from whom I slipped as she was attempting to clean herself with some old barn hay, spent very little time with me. When she wasn’t evacuating her bowels onto the chests of the most discontented members of Chichester-on-Stratvain-on-Bard, she was almost certainly voiding her bladder into the eyes and mouths of those sick bastards from Chichester-on-Bardvain or the various faculty members of the most esteemed, most exclusive school in the area, Oxford University.
Thanks in large part to my mother’s labor (hoping to make up for my lost childhood, she slept with or puked carrots upon most of the deans, professors, janitors, hobos, tramps, trannies and children of Oxford, knowing that the photos she secretly snapped would later come in handy for my admissions essay), I was accepted into Oxford-on-Stratvain-on-Bard. I began studying how my mother, a firm believer in Catholicism and receiving money for sex, could have possibly birthed 64 children in her short, mostly recumbent 48 years. My thesis paper titled “How My Mother Fucked a Mule” won me great acclaim and recognition, but also helped put to rest a niggling which had always been in the back of my mind. The solution to the puzzle was realized while reading an ancient mule-talk manuscript in which author Po the Mule wrote of his great love affair with a human lady. My guess is that some of the creatures that my lovely mother unleashed from her birth canal had shorter, slightly less human gestation periods. This also explains all the horse faces.
At university, I immediately became the most highly regarded student in my class. I know this is because of my work-ethic (similar to that of Saint Barenstain of Alembic who, it is said by the monks of his monastery, would work for hundreds of hours a week to convert whore after whore at the nearby brothel (It was later discovered that the brothel was actually a nunnery, and Saint Barenstain, having deflowered almost one hundred nuns, should be arrested rather than sainted, but the paperwork had already gone through at the Vatican)). My success certainly did not, as some of my slightly-dimwitted classmates might have you believe, having anything to do with my mother having photographs of each and every one of my professors in astonishingly compromising positions (some lying on piles of pornographic woodcarvings, being shat upon by my mother while she tells them to anally stimulate a favorite childhood stuffed animal, something like that… so say the liars).
