Give me a better life story.

In this thread Rue asks everyone to share thier life stories. (How’s about that Rue, little free advertising to atone for the attempted hijack.)

I’ve decided mine’s boring as hell. It’s not the only one that’s boring as hell, but it’s mine and I don’t like it.

So now’s your chance to come up with my true life story. The one that will go in my autobiography someday. The one that will amaze and astound friends. The one I get to tell girls in the bar when I’m out on the town to obtain one of the following reactions:

  1. Awe and reverence.
  2. Laughter.
  3. Pity and the desire to provide a sympathy screw.
    Have at it!

I was born a poor black child…

…in an ethnically diverse neighborhood. I could swear like a longshoreman in nine different languages by the time I was 3-years-old, just by listening to the neighbors fighting over which was better for me: lasagna, pierogies, or moussaka.

When I was four, I taught myself to read, but at first mixed up the vowels, so the teacher thought I was retarded.

Put in a part where you went to sea. Maybe even include a boat. Or not, it’s up to you. You could be captured by pirates and only survive because you said “Please”. (“Please” about what, again, is up to you, but I see a blue dress working to your advantage there.)

A mine cave-in would be exciting. You could either be in the rescue crew or one of the trapped miners. But if you’re a miner, you can’t drink. (Ha!)

Uh… you lost your virginity to your 4th grade school teacher. You were 15 because they still thought you were retarded and when they found out your weren’t, she just felt bad for you.

Don;t join the Forein Legion. It’s been done.

(And don’t sweat the attempted hijack. I figured it would be a regular MMP, but as it turned out, it wasn’t.)
-Rue. (trying to help for once)

I share your guilt. Yea, verily, did I participate in the hijack.

I don’t really have any suggestions (beyond the time you ran away to join the circus and shacked up with the tatooed lady), but I do have a request.

If you really want a new life story, may I have your old one? Sure, you don’t like it, but it’s still better than mine.

There’s got to be a heartwarming interlude involving a puppy or a kitten or a baby hedgehog or something. Preferably having to do with reuniting it with its mother. That will show your tender, vulnerable side.

And you can show your generous nature by sending me cash. Small bills are fine. I’ll get all weepy and declare how you saved my life through your unselfish act. Then maybe as a reward, you can gave wild sex with a supermodel.

How about running away to join the Ren Faire circuit, travelling around the country selling kosher pickles and eating rat on a stick? Ahh, the memories…

The details of my life are quite inconsequential… very well, where do I begin?

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15-yearold French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.

My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we’d make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds – pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of 14 a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum… it’s breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.

I hope you can find a place to fit in some space travel. And cheese. Actually, the two should go together. Not in the tried-and-true Moon-made-of-green-cheese sense, but in a New and Different way. Here, I’ll give an example…


After graduating from Anapolis, I was accepted as the eighth Mercury astronaut; the secret, covert, CIA conspiracy one. Bet you thought there were only seven Mercury astronauts, huh? The CIA hushed me up because I was selected to do work that was secretive, covert, and conspiratorial. But now that Deep Throat’s dead (or is she?), I can tell my story…

My test pilot training stood me in good stead, as I was prepared for my mission - a mission so dangerous that (despite my incredible courage and manliness) they wouldn’t even tell me what I was going to be doing. But I didn’t mind; I liked blindly following orders (hence my desire to join the military in the first place).

I was told to get in the centrifuge contraption, so they could whirl me around at redicuous speeds and see if my brain would fly right out my ears. I did (it didn’t).

I was told to undergo dozens, if not hundreds, of humiliating and invasive medical tests to establish my fitness for spaceflight. I did (and actually, they weren’t that bad).

I was told to refrain from any contact with my friends or loved ones in the outside world, and to spend fifteen hours a day paying homage to The Everlasting One. I did (but then I went back to NASA, because the cult stopped being a lot of fun, when they wanted to make us drink Kool-Aid - yuck!).

ANYHOW, after all this rigorous preparation, the day of the launch came around. Four hours before takeoff, I was called into a Secret Office, where I was briefed on my mission by CIA operatives with names like “Mr. X,” “Mr. and/or Ms. XXY,” and “Cher”. This would not be some candy-ass up-around-down-again flight like the othe boys had been doing. No sir. My mission was serious, complicated, and (though it pains me to admit it) sinister.

You may (or may not, depending on your age) recall, that the Space Race took place during the height of the Cold War. But perhaps you do not realize just how close that war came to becoming Hot. No, it had nothing to do with the Cuban Missile Crisis; in fact the hottest part wasn’t nukes at all. It was - I know you saw this coming - cheese.

Cheese, that cruel and insidious force; that harbinger of hulkery, that carrier of cholesterol, which has damaged - nay, destroyed - so many hearts, souls and arteries. Yes, cheese. During the Cold War, Cheese was the greatest single threat Communism ever faced from America. Rising Blob-like out of places so apparently innocent as the fair state of Wisconsin came the cheesy menace, which was to become my payload on that flight; and very nearly, a Payload of Horror.

Armed with (and terrified by) the information from my briefing, I was strapped into the capsule. Beneath me were thousands of gallons of rocket fuel, but this did not scare me one bit. What scared me were the tons of cheese. Mozzarella, Cheddar, Provalone, Münster, Camembert, Monterey Jack, Stilton, Brie, Swiss, Limburger - you name it, if it’s a kind of cheese, it was crammed into my cargo compartment (that sounds dirty, but isn’t). Sweat beading thickly on my forehead, I awaited the countdown.

It came and went, the engines fired, and I was launched, in a roar of hellfire and thunder. After that, everything happened in a blur. I remember my hand shaking as I opened the protection-screen to reveal the Cheese-Release lever. I did not want to be the one to make the first strike in what everyone expected to be the war that destroyed us all. But I had my orders. Entering a low orbit, I was to release the cheese (not the hounds), as my flightpath took me over Eurasia; hopefully shrouding the Soviet Union in a greasy, suffocating heap of cheese (granted, other countries would fall, too, if my trajectory was even the slightest bit off. But those were acceptable losses).

I crossed over the Soviet Union. Control radioed that it was time. I pulled the lever, but I was strapped in so tightly that I couldn’t see the resulting devastation beneath me.

“Cheesy Seven to Houston: Payload released, over,” I told the CapCom. I felt sick.
There was static, then silence.
“Houston to Cheesy Seven: Release payload. Repeat, release payload now. Do you read?”
I was confused. I told them I already had.
“We read no payload release. Pull the lever again.”
“Roger.” I pulled the lever again.
“Payload released, over.”
“Negative. No release.” There was a pause. “Try smacking it a couple times.”
I smacked the lever, pulled it again, wiggled it around. My cheese wouldn’t budge.

As I crossed the continent, and was once more over the sea, it became clear that the mission must be aborted. Somehow, the mechanism had failed, and though it would never earn me a smash hit movie, I was thankful. The Soviet Union remained un-cheesed, and the world would never know how close we came to war (or my role in this horrific plot).

Until now.


See what I mean about the cheese/spaceflight thing? It’s fun! And that was just a fer-instance.

Love,
Kn*ckers

When I was seven, to the delight of my peers, I was kidnaped by Al-wah Ibn Hakuza, commonly known as The Hematite Shiekh. He informed me that his favorite dancing monkey, Brad, had contracted the bubonic plague. While he and his entourage prayed for a swift recovery, in the meantime, I was to stand in…or die.

Never before had I played such a dangerous game. I performed before crowds, before the Shiekh’s loyal subjects, wearing only a fez and a button-up vest. I wanted to yell out, to say “Your ruler is decieving you! The real monkey is lying ill at this very moment!” but I did not. The crowd would have torn me to shreds, had they learned the truth. At every hop, every spin, every gyration of my spurious monkey dance, I feared discovery…and off the stage, I was under constant threat from the Shiekh’s bodyguards.

I was confined to my room, a small cell equipped with the barest minimum a boy needed to live. By day I would climb atop the entertainment center and peer out through the oppressive bars of my cell window, and at night I would cry myself to sleep on the antique four-poster bed.

This went on for longer than I could imagine; my life become simply a rote excercise, eating, sleeping, and monkey dancing. I lost track of the days, and gave up hope of ever seeing my home again. And yet, from my despair, there bloomed new hope. I began constructiing a means of escape. With each new day my project grew, and in no time at all, I had a servicable space craft…

Thanks a lot. I know you meant me. :wink:

How about the part where you go into the well to save the kitten, and you’re trapped in the well, and the teams search for you for days, only to find you laughing with the kitten in a nearby barn.

And you were definitely part of the team that faked the moon landing, using the Iraqi desert as the backdrop.

Pardon my question, but if your current life story is indeed as pathetic as you claim, wouldn’t the truth be more likely to get you a “sympathy screw” than whatever we could make up for you?

Enjoy,
Steven
[sub]Who actually played out this sort of “Cyrano deBergerac” type of event in high school. I once wrote a lovely short story that a friend gave to his girlfriend and she was so moved by the story that the relationship moved on to a “new level” that he was VERY happy with. Not sure I’m proud of such a dubious feat of literary duplicity, but it is true. Unlike the Cyrano of the stories, I had no interest in the girl for myself.[/sub]

Don’t forget the gratuitious sex stories and waking up from a one night stand in a hotel that you don’t remember how you got to and red headed cheerleading twins laying next to you in bed naked that you’ve never seen before and there is a faint smell of honey in the air.

Well actually, NE Texan, I’m pretty sure the monkey-prong-breathed little weasel meant me.

I’m not saying your life story ain’t boring as all get out, but the mother-ignoring, sister-teasing, cat’s-butthole-turpentining irrisponsible little freedom toad of an OP was probably trying to dig me again. He does that. He’s so predictable.

You’re probably off the hook here, but that’s no reason for you to not slam welby anyway, if you’re so inclined.

So far, his new life story is a tad chaotic, and I think it’s time to impose some order on it and clean it up a bit. We have this to work with. He:[ul]
[li]was born a poor black child[/li][li]was mis-diagnosed (?) as retarded[/li][li]went to sea, and didn’t join Le Legion Etrangere[/li][li]had a heartwarming interlude with a a fuzzy widdle beastie[/li][li]was a French-Belgian world traveler[/li][li]flew into space with cheese[/li][li]was kidnapped by Arabs and forced to dance with monkeys[/li][li]fell into a well and faked the moon landing[/li][li]tried, repeatedly, to impress chicks, to no avail[/li][/ul] We have to put all this stuff into some sort of credible order.

C’mon, people.

Internal consistency, reasonable suspension of disbelief, etc. You know the drill.

Let’s give him a formeragent-style backstory.

Damn, Exgineer, I think you’ve got some hostility issues. Either that or you’ve gotten a big head just because you got a dinner invite from Fairy Chat Mom. You’ll always be in second place though, because I’ve had her tasty home-made chocolate cake. (It really is tasty. Yet another thing I’d sell your soul for a piece of.)

It’s not my fault your life was duller than a Barney Fife convention. And for the record, I never, EVER teased your sister. It really was true love. :smiley:

The stuff about the cats and mother ignoring is, shamefully, true.

I do agree about the consistency. Right now my life story is a cross between a 1950’s comic book and a bad acid flashback. I like the idea of a formeragent backstory too, maybe you could play the part of the guy trying to keep everything quiet.

Kn*ckers, the above statement is so fraught with potential jokes and innuendo I don’t know where to begin.

“Of a dung beetle I would ask, Why bother? Of a tapeworm, Do you ever wish you could dine in a more formal setting?”

-S. Albini

Don’t forget about when you saved the world from the evil cooler of death.

and from Haley’s Comet.

and from Kryptonite.

and from those flying monkeys.

and from Jane Fonda.

and Communism. That was you I saw tearing down the Berlin Wall, wasn’t it ?

Dangit, people, you’re not helping.

You’re all just throwing more cordwood on the pile and leaving me to stack it. I’m just going to build a framework as of my last post and hope somebody else will help me flesh it out. Here we go:

welby was born a poor black child to a 15 year old French prostitute mother and a Belgian rake of a father who would drag the “family” hither and yon around the world as he pursued his debauchery. Little welby got his education, such as it was, in missionary schools in various places, but the teachers mis-diagnosed (?) him as retarded, because he babbled strange words a lot. They just didn’t realize that he was speaking 17 different languages simultaneously.

Along the way, he adopted a pet platypus. Oh, how he loved that platypus. He taught it little tricks, like how to stand on its hind legs, dig it’s venemous spurs into people welby didn’t like, and wear a jaunty little beret. One day they were playing their favorite game, “Chuck The Platypus As Far As You Can And Watch Him Scamper Back,” when welby accidentally tossed his little friend across the road. This left him bitter, and resentful of large trucks.

He ran away from his “family” and signed on to a tramp steamer. An older swabbie befriended him and tried to convince him to join the French Foreign Legion. He declined, and oh how he would regret that decision.

His ship was captured by Arab pirates in the Red Sea, and he spent the next ten years of his life in miserable slavery, forced to dance with monkeys for the pleasure of the Sultan. Or the Emir, whatever.

Upon his escape, which is a story all it’s own, he came to the notice of NASA when he tried and failed to rescue a kitten that had fallen down a well. He faked up some pictures to make it look like he actually had rescued the kitten, so NASA put him to work faking the moon landing.

He did very well at that job. So much so that the CIA recruited him for a plot to cover the Soviet Union in sticky cheese using a Mercury capsule. A mechanical failure is all that prevented World War III.

In an effort to cover the whole thing up, the government issued him a wife and two children, because he had no hope of picking up chicks on his own, and put him in the Witness Protection Program.

There now, that’s better. Can I get a little help?

I may have hostility issues, but since I’m the guy who had to find out that I was being insulted in a thread I hadn’t even opened from a disinterested third party, I feel justified.

welby is a cheap, easy slut.

Now we’re even.