There’s no doubt that you swarms of smug bottom-eaters know me as “that unhinged pet shop owner simmering in Boothbay Harbor that you pay attention to until something really bad happens” . But have you ever wondered WHY am I such a danger to myself and others? Like most other sociopaths, it was my childhood that took me from the gurgling, cuddly, toddler to the barely coherent fountain of swear words you enjoy (FREE) today.
PRIMARY SCHOOL: Forced to wear highly flammable clothing and goggles thick enough to start a fire on Saturn (Side note: goggles had an impact rating of 14 megatons).
Forced to go to Glee Club, violin lessons,the Junior Anti-Sex League protests and moderate the SALT II nuclear disarmament talks.
I endured water fluoridation, multiple lies about the moon landing, and stinging slaps in the face while trying to figure out “What’s under that dress?”
Secret shame: I lost the ascot to this outfit just days after purchase.
I hate my bangs in this photo.
This was taken shortly after listening to .38 Special’s”Hold on loosely” for the first time. I was only months away from eating my first taco.
Despite being the water leader on the football team and spending a fortune on the latest fashions and hairstyles, I still couldn’t figure out what was underneath that dress. The only clues came from the Sears catalog of women’s underwear. It was a very primitive time.
Secret shame: I wanted to change my name to Jethro. Not because of Mr. Tull, but because of the Beverly Hillbillies.
Ahh…those sunglasses. And this chicken.
If it hadn’t been for my pet chicken “Quetzalcoatl” (pronounced “Eddie”), my life might have taken a VERY different path.
Quetzalcoatl introduced me to a life of drugs, alcohol, sports betting, currency speculation, easy eggs, and arms dealing. And let’s face it; chicks LOVE a chicken. Without her, I might never have found out what was under that dress.
It was in high school that I formulated my hugely successful manifesto regarding the twin spearhead tank warfare in Eastern Europe. I also perfected the perfect martini (gin, stirred, unshaken, and very dirty) and completed my thesis on Hal Linden’s “Shining Path” sympathies.
Secret shame: Arrested for hitting the wrong kind of girls.
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