Biographica
When A&E makes a Biography about me - and they will (by 2023, there won't be anyone else left) - I want Jack Perkins to introduce it. None of this Harry Smith stuff. I demand Perkins.
Sure, he'll have to have a stiff drink to keep himself awake while detailing the story of my life in all its excruciating detail, but you won't be able to tell the difference.
Due to a severe lack of videotape, photographs, and painted materials to support their hour, they'll have to resort to the drawings of a court sketch artist who will be given the one extant picture of me as a six year old, a physical description and a 20 hour deadline to draw out the events of my life.
As viewers, you will thrill! to the sight of me hotelling in cubeland. You will gasp! as you see my stunning rise to mediocrity. You will tremble! as I negotiate the merge from the Toll Road to 28.
The court sketch artist will depict me sleeping peacefully, snuggled under my blankets, and dashing in the distance to catch a plane. There'll be another picture of me in mid-sentence, over which all of my statements and quotations will be interpretted by an underemployed voice-over artist who was told to sound like a cross between woman with a cold and Jennifer Tilly.
A word of caution: you may see some blatant untruths on that edition of Biography. So, just for the record, let me say:
I have never, ever - E V E R - taught anyone how to play the harmonica.
I have not been to the moon, and I certainly never buried anything there.
Elderberry wine? What elderberry wine? I've never even heard of the stuff before.
I did not kill your friend Flicka - she was like that when I got there.
