I Am Jumping Jack Flash
Contrary to popular belief, life’s not always a gas. Oh, sure, sometimes it’s a gas, but more often than not, it’s pretty shitty.
How do I know?
I am Jumping Jack Flash.
While a good portion of my life has been outlined in song, hyperbole has taken over and blown some of the details out of proportion, specifically me thinking everything is a gas.
Yes, I was born in a crossfire hurricane. And I did howl at my mother in the driving rain. However, she had locked me out of the house after stumbling upon my pornography collection.
Things were OK after that, but I wouldn’t call my life, at that point, a “gas.” Mom understood, it being just the two of us after dad had left. Or died. I can’t remember which. It was a while ago.
In any case, I think it’d be completely off-base to call my beautiful Swedish nanny a “toothless, bearded hag.” Inga was beautiful. She was the one who’d given me the pornography, you see. They’ve got some weird stuff over in Europe, especially in the colder climates. Come to think of it, it’s a little weird that mom was so forgiving . . .
What was I saying? Oh, yeah: Inga. I guess you could call what she and I did being “schooled with a strap across the back.” Like I said: Europe = Leather Fetish Sex Parlors.
But even that got boring, so, yet again, life wasn’t exactly a gas. Especially when you and your 25-year-old Swedish nanny are in love, have gotten a quicky marriage in Port-au-Prince, and, because of your age differences, are now entangled in a court case involving child molestation charges.
But when Inga hired that hitman to murder me so that she could inherit my wealth? Yeah, that was really messed up. I was thrown overboard one day when we went white water rafting. I was basically drowned, washed up, and left for dead. All the while Inga and my lawyer fled to Uppsala . . .
So, yeah, maybe I did try to kill myself. I didn’t want to eat, I was so depressed. I frowned at even a crumb of a crust of bread. Then I wanted to make a big statement and tried to crucify myself, but in the middle of it I looked down at my feet and saw they bled. That kinda freaked me out, even though I was good and pilled-up. But when I tried to removed the spikes, I pulled too hard and impaled myself through the head.
So, you know what, doctor: can you just get this fucking spike out of my head and stop laughing at the fact that my name is Jumping Jack Flash?
How do I know?
I am Jumping Jack Flash.
While a good portion of my life has been outlined in song, hyperbole has taken over and blown some of the details out of proportion, specifically me thinking everything is a gas.
Yes, I was born in a crossfire hurricane. And I did howl at my mother in the driving rain. However, she had locked me out of the house after stumbling upon my pornography collection.
Things were OK after that, but I wouldn’t call my life, at that point, a “gas.” Mom understood, it being just the two of us after dad had left. Or died. I can’t remember which. It was a while ago.
In any case, I think it’d be completely off-base to call my beautiful Swedish nanny a “toothless, bearded hag.” Inga was beautiful. She was the one who’d given me the pornography, you see. They’ve got some weird stuff over in Europe, especially in the colder climates. Come to think of it, it’s a little weird that mom was so forgiving . . .
What was I saying? Oh, yeah: Inga. I guess you could call what she and I did being “schooled with a strap across the back.” Like I said: Europe = Leather Fetish Sex Parlors.
But even that got boring, so, yet again, life wasn’t exactly a gas. Especially when you and your 25-year-old Swedish nanny are in love, have gotten a quicky marriage in Port-au-Prince, and, because of your age differences, are now entangled in a court case involving child molestation charges.
But when Inga hired that hitman to murder me so that she could inherit my wealth? Yeah, that was really messed up. I was thrown overboard one day when we went white water rafting. I was basically drowned, washed up, and left for dead. All the while Inga and my lawyer fled to Uppsala . . .
So, yeah, maybe I did try to kill myself. I didn’t want to eat, I was so depressed. I frowned at even a crumb of a crust of bread. Then I wanted to make a big statement and tried to crucify myself, but in the middle of it I looked down at my feet and saw they bled. That kinda freaked me out, even though I was good and pilled-up. But when I tried to removed the spikes, I pulled too hard and impaled myself through the head.
So, you know what, doctor: can you just get this fucking spike out of my head and stop laughing at the fact that my name is Jumping Jack Flash?
posted by MASchiavo at 12:00 AM
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