What can I honestly say about myself? I can never remember lies, so I suppose it's easier to tell the truth. But like the New Zealand tax laws, there has to be a limit to that sort of thing. I am convinced that as bullshit will beat brains 7 days a week, lying is a philosophy worth pursuing. Have you ever read a truthful author of fiction? Lets face it, if it were true, it wouldn't be fiction. You have been warned!
I was born in bed with my mother. She had a couple of ripe life support sysytems to which I grew very attached. I fact I used to swing on them as if my life depended upon them. Being very young, I don't remember a great deal of being a baby. Apparently I was normal in every aspect except believed I was grown up by the age of 3. At 7 I was very tall for a 14 year old boy. And at 20 I graduated to solid food.
I spent my tender years roaming the world in search of excitement and managed to get arrested for drunkeness in Moscow, aged 18. Tired of being shot at (you have to shoot back first) and winning all my barroom brawls, I returned home and became a hotelier running what were commonly called booze-barns. It was rough, tough and I learned a lot about human nature. You have to, otherwise you don't survive.
Most of my novels are based on my boozer experiences and the debasing of human decency. When the booze goes in, the sense goes out. Any hotelier will tell you the same thing. As a result I've got more kids that most people have had hot dinners. In the booze business one must eat on the hoof. But it wasn't my fault, I tell you. The females took advantage of my obliging nature. You know the story. A man chases a girl until she catches him. I could never run very fast. So I took the easy way out, or was it in?
Now I spend my time indulging my fantasies and writing novels in a $100 caravan (trailer) parked in the backyard. I own a fox terrier called Treasure and a Maori wife called Lynn and sleep with both of them. They're warmer than hot water bottles.
I write a varity of newspaper columns and endless letters to the editor. But sometimes the editors get a little carried away and refuse to publish my brand of truthfulness. A million curses upon them. May the fleas of a thousand camels infest their armpits.
By the way, I drink red wine because the bubbly stuff gets up my nose. Besides it's good for me. 100% of all sober people die. So I take evasive action to avoid fatal possibilities.
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In the Land of Miracles