Before I was even born I couldn’t wait to get spanked. The doctor gave me a limp-wristed tap and I said, Come on man, you’ve got to hit me harder. Dad was a jungle grunt who couldn’t break the habit of offering me a chocolate bar every time we crossed paths. Mom was a mamasan who took to the States like a Frenchman to butter. I was burning my diapers in pre-school and reading The Little Red Book in kindergarten. Dad hit mom, so I pulled a switchblade, and that was that. We moved to Florida and I traded in my training fatigues for duds a little more recherché. I couldn’t sing but that didn’t stop me from wanting to be a singer. My rise to fame was due to the fact that I knew just the right guys to get a rise out of. One thing lead to the next in a predictable fashion. I was playing someone else’s part to a T. The President of the United States wanted to meet me. I wasn’t impressed, to say the least. He was wearing a track suit and staring me down with his glimmery peepers. He tried to talk around me but I am immune to double speak. He grabbed the lapels of my triple-breasted pink velour blazer and said, Listen, besides being the leader of the free world I’m also a man, a man who wants to make love to you. I said, Oh, so you want to pork? He smiled and I sucked on his two front teeth. It was during the middle of his version of standard copulation that he asked me if I would like to be the ambassador to my mother’s homeland. Along the way I fell in love with Hue. Hey, I put my lipstick on just like anyone else, one lip at a time.
The Life & Times Of A Bourgeois Creep