I was raised by a drunken eskimo who used to beat me with a live seal whenever he was upset with the happenings on "The Young & The Restless". I ran away from home at age 9 to join a circus, but as that particular circus turned out to actually be a training camp for government super spies, I learned the arts of assassination, which I used to threaten the dean of admissions at Harvard when I was 12. Upon graduating Harvard, I penned several of Whitney Houston's biggest hits, including "I Will Always Love You" and "I Wanna Dance With Somebody", while on a thirteen-day drug-induced period of no sleep. Ms. Houston stole the songs from a locker at the local YMCA and changed the lyrics ("I Will Always Love You" was originally written as "I Will Always Love Glue"). After an unsuccessful lawsuit due to the incompetence of my lawyer, one Mr. Leonard Nimoy, I stowed away on a fishing boat bound for Norway, where I learned to play the Oboe from a Norweigan barber named Ralph. My Oboe playing took me around the world, where I performed for many dignitaries and the Queen of Wisconsin, as well as the Earl of Utah. I also performed on three of David Lee Roth's biggest hits, but, as they were his biggest solo hits, no one ever heard them.It was Mr. Roth's association with Sy Sperling, Hair Club For Men President (and member) that enabled me to attend Mr. Sperling's New Year's Rockin' Eve Bash at the Hair Club Ranch, where I delved into my now-legendary impression of Robert DeNiro, Paul Hogan, Sting, and Jesus Christ ordering sandwiches at a Manhattan Deli. I took this act on the road when I was 15, and it payed the bills for a few years, but at age 19 I decided I was getting too old for fun, so I became a priest of Ilmater, god of suffering. After nine months of whipping myself into bleeding unconsciousness on a nightly basis for the sins of the world, I was made aware of the fact that no such god exists, and I abandoned the priesthood - just in time, too. I quickly fell in love with the girl of my dreams - she was a black haired beauty with big dark eyes. But alas, upon running into an old friend from super spy school, he informed me that the object of my desire was but five years old, and that I would have to wait until she reached the courting age of seven before persuing anything further. This disenheartened me, and I found myself spiraling quickly into a deviant lifestyle of gay porn and crack binges. This went on for six years. The first three were due to my depression, while the latter half was just for all the crack I was getting to smoke. When this ended, I decided to change my life, so I climbed to the top of Mount Evrest, which is actually an exact replica of Mount Everest, except it happens to be two feet tall and in the center of a miniature golf course. When the security guards finally pried me off the top (this took four hours, as I had planted my climbing tools deeply into the side of the styrofoam structure so as not to fall off and become dinner for the eleven-foot plastic alligator below, who would surely be happy for a bit of man-flesh after consuming approximately 800 golf balls a day), I was taken to a mental hospital, where I declared all the doctors unfit to diagnose my case. They were offended, but as Eskimo law states, the patient has the right to declare his doctor unfit and have him fed to a walrus. Since no walrus was available, I had my doctors fed to Chunk, the little guy from the Goonies. With no medical supervision, I easily gained access to the proper drugs with which to poison my guards, and I escaped wearing a mask I had made from the skin of one of them. Not that this was necessary, as no one was trying to find me or stop me, but, man, have you ever felt the inside of somebody's facial features against your cheek? That's like, creepy, man. Eventually the dead skin mask deteriorated and I was suddenly recognized by Alan Alda, for whom I had, as I mentioned earlier, played the Oboe when he was the Earl of Utah. Mr. Alda told me of an idea of his which would allow ordinary consumers to review products of all types in a forum that the public could access in order to make informed decisions before buying said products. I told him of my friend Al Gore, who was designing the internet at the time but had no instrument on which to run it. Quickly I set to work inventing first the computer and then the personal computer. When I had accomplished this, I unfortunately forgot why I had invented it, and so I began selling webspace to interested buyers, all of whom happend to be pornographers. After several years, the internet began to include a few websites that weren't porn, one of which was epinions.com. "What a stupid idea," I thought, having forgotten Mr. Alda's plan, and so I avoided the site. Several years later, however (last month in fact) I stumbled across epinions.com once more, and, having suffered yet another memory loss (my doctor says these are due to the seal beatings) I happily registered and began writing reviews of candy bars. As it turned out, however, no one was interested in reading them, as they were written in my native tongue, which is known only to myself and a few well-trained polar bears. And so I was forced to write english, at which time I realized that the english word for candy bar is "CD". I found this odd, as CDs taste nothing like a Milky Way, but my english-to-hellfudge dictionary said they are one and the same, so I built a CD player out of coconut shells and rubber bands and began stealing CDs from the backs of delivery trucks parked behind record stores (which oddly enough, carry very few if any records). My first review was of the great band Winger, but I soon realized that everyone in the world already loves Winger, so why bother trying to get them to like it even more? I deleted that review and began writing about lesser known bands like the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. But every time I went to publish them, a tornado would strike the power lines and my computer would need repairs. After a time I was able to maintain a steady connection and I wrote all the reviews you see in the course of seventeen minutes during a rerun of "Growing Pains". I had already seen that episode - it's the one where Mike Seaver knocks up a crack addict and is forced to gun her down in the middle of the street because she insists on telling everyone at his school about the tattoo he has of Donald Duck on his left buttcheek. You know the one - they show it all the time.
|
- Add to My Yahoo!: 
- Add to Google Homepage: 
© 1999-2009 Shopping.com, Inc.