I was created in a debris-strewn alley when an unnamed transient
screwed a discarded waffle iron beneath some high-tension wires during
a thunderstorm. The motion of his wrinkly member repeatedly
penetrating that malfunctioning appliance caused it to short-circuit
at the very same moment Jupiter slid into alignment with a fluorescent
light globe manufacturing plant in downtown New Jersey, thus tearing a
hole in the very fabric of reality and causing an elderly musk rat to
violently expel me from its anus in a large cloud of argon gas. In my
larval stage I resembled a small elliptical puffer fish with training
wheels and I divided my time pretty much equally between foraging for
mossy deposits growing on the undercarriage of parked cars and
attempting to attack low-flying aircraft. After several years on the
street, I was found by a kind-hearted Vietnamese sailor, on shore
leave and trawling the back alleys for hookers, and adopted by him
shortly thereafter. I spent the next six years sailing around the
world on a Vietnamese whaler, earning my keep by eating the barnacles
that periodically attached themselves to the hull of the ship, until
it was scuttled by a rogue manatee in 1946. After washing ashore in
early 1947, I won a scholarship at Cambridge University, where I
quickly discovered how to steal paper clips from the faculty supply
closet. After graduating, I spent the next decade or so making a
fairly decent profit smuggling anencephalic babies into Libya, hidden
in Pringles cans secreted deep within the cavernous armpits of my
beloved camel, Roseanne. I was going by the name “Aluminum Harry”
at the time and my forehand serve was legendary. If I’m not entirely
mistaken, I believe it was at some point during this period that I
invented chalk. As a highly sought-after and rare delicacy, trading in
anencephalous infants was an extremely lucrative source of income for
anyone with the fortitude to brave the dangerous border-crossings and
inhospitable desert terrain. The Libyan Royalty were especially
partial and would pay a handsome price for prime merchandise. Alas,
after nearly fifteen years, my illustrious career abruptly came to an
end after I insulted the King Of Libya’s hairiest (and thus most
desirable) daughter by refusing to pelt her unconscious with melons (a
local custom I was not aware of). I spent most of the interim years up
until this point in a dank Libyan jail cell attempting to train
hundreds of cockroaches and gnats to cover my body from head to toe
and fly me to freedom through an uncovered ventilation shaft high up
in the stone ceiling of my prison. Unfortunately, I succeeded only in
contracting Amoebic Dysentery thirty-six times. I eventually managed
to make my escape by presenting my jailer with a lovely hand-woven
rhinestone-studded silk bra and asking very politely to be released.
After the guard covered his eyes and began counting to twenty, I
slipped away from the prison compound in the dead of night, now
entirely penniless and, wearing only a small radish, set off for my
homeland on a conveniently nearby-parked dog sled.
