Three years into my birth. I'm still trying

Three years into my birth. I'm still trying to figure out what the devil

is up with pop music out there. I loiter in the birth canal as long as I can, preparing my lines, waiting for the right moment to enter the world, hoping my mother will forgive

parturative Fauxpas. I thought it 'retro' to arrive ass first & toot the first lines of 'Born to be Wild', but I was birthed in a swimming pool, & baited with a recording contract

. You see, I was created by taking the DNA from the fat in Elvis Presly's upper lip and injecting it into a gorilla egg.

This explains my awesome beauty & unusual arrangement of facial hair. The presence of Elvis Fat DNA makes my chromosomes jiggle wildly & I'm hyper-fertile. I impregnate women merel

y by tickling them. Who knows how many children I have fathered over the years? There's one in particular that I have been building the courage to approach for about a year now, sh

ame on me. I wanted to find this illegitmate child of mine. The lad's name, I learned, was Bill. Bill Gates. A dorky kid, to be sure, but I saw my resemblence in his intelligent

spectacles, which reflected light pretty well given how greasy they were. I used my reflection in Mr. Gates' glasses to fix up my hair. I just couldn't get it to stick out just

the way it used to in my younger days. But there was no time for perfection; Betty would be here any minute. The sound of a car crunching its way over a sea of gravel made my