A Different Tack
My loyal readers. I've decided to tell all after these many years of pretending to be something that I'm not. My role as father, husband, and semi-employed reformed literary hipster is a lie, a cover for the terrible reality of my actual self. Writers, after all, must always tell the truth about themselves. The truth.
I may be a father, but I am also a murderer of children. Several thousand of them have died on my watch, some in secret government-sponsored air raids in foreign countries that no longer exist. But it's more depraved than that. I killed all those children while addicted to crack, and weed, and heroin. That was very hard to do because I couldn't see very well due to the massive quantities of blood that were streaming from the always-open wound in my forehead, which was given to me by my childhood rabbi after he sodomized me at a strip club that we owned together. Also, I'm a transgendered prostitute who writes poetry, my mother was a whore, and my father was a sailor from Athens who was murdered by the original members of the Black Gangster Disciples after he tried to steal a shipment of amphetamines from them. I'm on the top ten wanted list in 37 states, and in the top five in the other 13. I've never met a woman who didn't want to fuck me.
It's been a hard life because the cops won't start--I mean stop--beating me up. The other day, I spilled coffee on the passenger seat of my 2006 BMW Convertible. That pissed me off so much that I stopped off at the closest Catholic church and hired a bunch of bums to gang-rape a nun. That's how much of a bad-ass I am. Meanwhile, the rumors that I've been hiring an actress to play me in public are only part true. I did hire one, but I killed her after I made her give me a blowjob under the table at the Paramount backlot commissary. If you're wondering where all the records of my various crimes have gone, well, they were destroyed in a fire a few years ago, a fire that spread across neighborhood police stations in every state. You didn't hear about that fire because of another fire that night, this one afflicting newsrooms.
And yes, it's true that an Egyptian princess found me in the bullrushes and raised me as her own son. The fact that I was 16 when she found me didn't stop me from fucking her, hard, and then killing her to claim her throne. As soon as that was over, I sent Gus Van Sant, who is making this blog entry into a movie, a dried elk's penis as proof.
If any of you question any of my claims, you're an asshole. Actually, you're an asshole anyway, and I'm going to kill you if I get drunk in your presence. I'm sorry about all the bad things I've done. Now buy my books.