About
I was born to a woman who spent an alcohol fueled night with a Sasquatch. He disappeared into the forest and left me in the care of my mother, who lovingly shaved my abundant body hair on a daily basis.
My mother passed away from a flying rubber boot slamming into her face. Some say it was thrown by one of our drunken neighbors. I like to think Jesus was kicking Mom in the face.
On my own at the innocent, young age of 30, I traveled the country. I, wearing only my beanie cap and trusty pair of leg warmers, hitchhiked across the USA before I was kidnapped and sold to a nefarious band of button collectors, who used my tiny fingers to search for . . . well, buttons.
I could take no more. Upon finding a particularly exquisite button with a picture of two goats fornicating on it, I ran away. With my button.
I stowed away on a steamer-ship headed for China, where I learned the true art of button collecting. I also got syphilis. After an aggressive dosage of penicillin and more disease riddled sex, I was cured.
Returning home, I settled in a tiny little town known as “That Shithole.” Here, I work on my painted potatoes and continue to pursue my lifelong dream of owning my own front door.
Or not.
