There once was a man from... aw, fuck it. I can't rhyme worth a damn. I'll just cut to the quick of it.
I was born a poor, black child. But then the doctor wiped off the clotted blood, and I was just a poor, white child. I was brought into the world screaming at 12:30 pm on November 22, 1963. Some say my first cries sounded like gunshots. My mother wore a pillbox hat during delivery, and my father was said to be a quiet man just out of the army. As is the case with these things, he alone conceived me, though there has been some confusion in my life about the possible paternity of a hobo with unusually neat and new shoes. But I digress.
I entered school at the prodigious age of 3, for I was a precocious young child, and I had a predisposition for the preoccupation of preschool. Soon though, sharing Lincoln Logs held no interest for me, and I decided that no other child should play with them either. I entered the play booth while a small child by the name of Wendell Wilkes was messing about, and I smashed him in the back of the head and kicked over the little theatre he was building from those abominable logs.
From a very early age, I had an intolerance for tyranny, you see.
At the age of 3 years old and 1 month, I entered 5th grade. I moved very fast through my education, you see. Who needs knowledge when you simply walk into classrooms. In my day, the teachers were all too altered by qualudes to notice that I wasn't in their actual class. Spike enough drinks, and you too can graduate as the valedictorian of your elementary school!
Middle school was rough for me as a 4 year old. I'd rather not talk about it. The words "barbituate," "gym showers," "staple gun," and "potato" get tossed around alot by my assorted biographers. Needless to say, it was painful. Like I said, I'd rather not talk about it.
High School came when I was 27, or once I'd recovered from middle school. By that age, I had grown a formidable beard. In the 23 years of recovery time which was spent almost entirely idle after middle school, I had occupied myself in many ways. One of these ways was learning to braid my facial hair into complex patterns and designs. My first day as a freshman in high school, I walked into Mr. Weinberger's world politics class with a beard that said, "Death To The Fascist Insect That Preys Upon The People." Beneath that, I had braided a life-like bust of Patty Hearst. It was a very moving beard, touching to many viewers, and it smelled strongly of fish.
I graduated high school with a diploma, a love of politics, and a court order prohibiting me from stepping foot in the town again. By law, I am not allowed to peak of how I came about the court order. All I can say without risking further legal injury is to give you a piece of advice: no matter what your friends tell you, fisting a llama in the nostril does not count as "second base."
I could have gone to college. Any college, in fact. Harvard, Yale, Stanford, MIT, Cal Tech, and Pahrump Nevada community college all offered me full scholarships to attend, on account of my unparalleled skill with the electric harmonica. But I chose to forego college, instead preferring to travel to the remote Pacific island of Tibet. There, I spent 5 years working with the men and women of the Tibetan National leper colony. I had gone there originally prepared to aid the sick and suffering, much like Mother Theresa had done. Instead, I found myself victim to a terrible typo. It was in fact the Tibetan National Leaper colony, home to hundreds of Tibet's best pole vaulters and high jumpers. There were a few very talented leap-froggers, but they were mostly ostracized by the other athletes on account of theirs not being "a real sport."
After spending 5 years polishing poles at the colony, I returned to the states. I have spent the time since then honing my raper-sharp wit. This is not to be confused with rapier-sharp wit. I do not possess a rapier, nor any wit resembling such a sword. Mostly, I just say things like "you were asking for it, wearing a short skirt like that!" and "you're all alike with your blond hair and plastered-on makeup." I like to think this makes me very witty, but the cashier at the local grocery store seemed to disagree. His name was Jamal, according to his nametag, and he reacted poorly to being called a "trollop of iniquity." On an unrelated note, I have a really cool scar from where the Doctors stitched me up on my forehead. 19 stitches without anesthetic. Badass.
Then, I decided to run for president. I did this for several reasons that I shall now list:
1) Chicks dig presidents. Ask Kennedy. Or Jefferson. Or Cleveland. Or Clinton. Or every single one of them except for James Buchanan. That Flamer.
2) Presidents get to watch any movie 3 months before it is released. All they have to do is threaten the MPAA with legal action and they deliver the movies right to his doorstep.
3) Presidents get free Pepsi and Coke. If I were president, I would have the Pepsi challenge on the whitehouse lawn every Tuesday. Badass.
4) Presidents get to make up nicknames for the vice president. My vice president, regardless of who I pick, would be named "Cooter." The press would then be forced to refer to Cooter daily. Badass.
5) If I were president, i would have access to the CIA's secret files. This would allow me to prove, once and for all, that Dr. Phil McGraw is not actually a real doctor, and is instead part of a grand conspiracy to boost Oprah's ratings. We need to get real.
6) "Mr. President" is a helluva lot better thing to be called than "jeezus christ! Stop staring at my chest!" Especially from dudes.
7) I have always wanted to learn how to make a collage, and what better to learn with than the Electoral one?
8) Eight is a nice, even number. There were eight Osmond brothers after all. That is a lie. I have no idea how many Osmond brothers there were. Besides, all anyone needs to know is that Donny was the cute one. The others were just there to remind you that Donny was the cute one. How could Donny have been the Cute One if he were the Only One? Also, he fed off of their dead skin that was scraped off nightly and put into a pile for his benefit.
Hi, I'm Craig Thompson. Welcome to my life.
