Now, you tell us a little about yourself.

The details of my life are quite inconsequential.

Oh, no, please, please.

Let's hear about your childhood.

OK.

Very well.

Where do I begin?

My father was a relentlessly self-improving

blanche ray owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy

and a penchant for buggery.

My mother was a 15-year-old French prostitute named Chloe

with a webbed feet.

My father would womanize, he would drink,

he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark.

Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy,

the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess

and the insane lament.

My childhood was typical.

Summers in Rangoon lose lessons.

In the spring, we'd make meet helmets.

When I was insulin, I was placed in a burlap bag

and beaten with reeds.

...