the fishing series (in progress) - 2000
My Life by Fishing DeMont
According to the Winterdt-Leonard scale, my life is, as of October 5, 1998, the 295,028,497th most interesting life of all life forms on the planet Earth. As a point of reference, the Lesser Flamingo is ranked 171,315,778th.
My name is Fishing DeMont and I'm fifteen years old. I'm two months younger than my twin brother, which some people find strange, but I don't. I live in the most boring state in the United States - Kansas. My brother Bowling calls it Ken's Ass. He thinks that's funny. I think it's obvious. People in the Midwest might have heard of me because I was the first kid in the area to ever bite through a chickenbone. I was famous for about three weeks, and then some kid ate a shoe and that was it. In Grade 6, I painted a giant UFO on the principal's door, and the homeroom teacher smashed a chalkboard over my head. I suffered a big brain injury and later died in the hospital. I still had to go to school the next day. My dad said that happened to him when he was a kid, too, so it was no big deal.
My dad Ruthie lives with Bowling and I. He works as a receiver at the local rotoengine factory. In addition to being color blind, my dad is also color deaf. Before the government took the piano away, I used to like to play music for my dad. He would sit in his chair across the room, where he couldn't see my hands,
I'd play the color green, and he'd say "red", because he couldn't tell the difference. Then we'd laugh ourselves silly. But that's enough about my dad.
Unlike most people in Ken's Ass, I know two languages: the one that my teachers want to hear and the one I invented to amuse myself. When I tell fancy people I know more than one language, they're impressed.
I'm also an avid anti-collector of bottlecaps. To date, I have over 5,943 bottlecaps not-collected. Whenever I see a bottlecap on the street, I don't collect it, and my anti-collection grows from there. I'm also starting to not collect flattened gum wrappers and pencil tips.
Not much happens in my town, in my life. For example: On Wednesday, April 17th, 1994, nothing happened to me. On January 12th, 1995, nothing also happened to me again. That's pretty typical. So, to pass the time, I'm working on my autobiography. But at the rate of nothing-happeningness that goes on here, it will take me another 771,085,441,223 days for me to fill up the 200 pages it takes to make a real autobiography. I guess my book will have to have lots of pictures.
Posted on décembre 11, 2001 09:17 PM