Race - Human. With a dash of Not-So-Human.
Sex - Often, but never enough.
Marital status - Still looking for the right sucker.
Employment Status - Until I’m caught, yes.
Looks - Tousled and devil-may-carish, heavenly honey brown hair, sultry summer green eyes, dashingly dapper dimples, and slightly ominous.
Fave book - The Art of War by Sun Tzu, or Uncle Shelby’s ABZ’s, by Shel Silverstein.
Fave flics - Classic - Citizen Kane, Horror - The Blob, Sci-Fi - The Matrix, Suspense - Devil’s Advocate or The Game, Porn - Deep Throat, Family - Mary Poppins, Musical - Does Heavy Metal count?, Drama - Schindler’s List, Comedy - Grosse Pointe Blank, Action - The Rock
Fave Show - The Simpsons.
Likes - Lots of stuff.
Dislikes - Lots more stuff.
Pet peeves - Road rage, disco, racists, the Christian Coalition, hypocrites (see “Christian Coalition), trendy people, assholes (see racists, hypocrites, the Christian Coalition, and trendy people)
Turn-Ons - Black underwear, rain, chicks who can kick my ass, blue jeans w/ a plain white T-shirt.
Turn-Offs - Red underwear, chicks who can kick Schwarzennegger’s ass, huge breasts, and the Christian Coalition.
Hobbies - I burn things.
Fears - Dying alone. When I go, I wanna take out as many others as I can. Oh, I’m also scared of the Boogey Man. If I had six minutes left to live, what would I do? - Type faster, think about how love has touched my life, grab a fan and a glass of ice water, and kiss my sorry ass good bye.
This is the story of a man.
No, no, wait - this is the epic story of a man.
Ooh ooh ooh, even better, the tragic epic story of a man.
No, still better - the tragic but triumphant epic story of a man.
Oh, I know! The tragic but triumphant grand epic adventure of a man! That’s it!
Yes. This is the story of how I, Robert D. McKinney Esquire III, rose from humble beginnings as a boot blackie
traveling across Antarctica with nothing but my wit and charm, to become a respected member of the European upper
class, with strong ties to the Royal Family as well as the Mafia.
I will unfold to you the often torrid, always sordid details of my heroic existence. How I was an operative in not only the CIA, but also the FBI, KGB, STASI, DOD, DEA, NASA, BYOB, TGIF, and even AOL.
So sit back and listen, my friends, as I relate to you the grandiose, unparalleled, remarkable, incredible, unbelievable, tragic but triumphant, grand epic adventure story of me.
“OY, OY, OY, ME GOT A HURT IN ‘ERE. OY, OY, OY, ME GOT A HURT IN ‘ERE. ’M GONNA GNOSH AND ’M GONNA BOSH UNTIL THE ‘URTIN’ DISSAPPEARS...”
It all started one bleak October morn. A Tuesday, I believe.
It is a little known fact that my mother died giving birth to me. Well, no, that’s not entirely true - my mother was killed while giving birth to me. The doctor shot her, screaming either “Repent, the Hell Spawn is born unto the Earth!”, or “Consent, the Bell Fawn is corn until mirth,” depending on which legend you listen to. Either way, he was a nut.
So from an early age, I was very responsible, taking on the awesome task of delivering myself. So, staggering forth
from the confines of my mother’s womb, I stood, rain coursing over my small but already strong body.
And raising my arms to an unseeing, uncaring sky, I screamed.
“FRANKENSTEIN!!!” My voice echoed across the dark of night.
And thus, it began.
“AND I LOOKED AT HIM, AND KNEW, THAT THIS CHILD WOULD BE THE ONE TO AVENGE THE BLOOD OF ALL IRISHMEN...”
My childhood was fairly uneventful. My terrible twos were just that, as I had just discovered teething, potty, matches, and plastique. I always knew I was destined for greatness. I had the Mark. A big birthmark on my back that looked like the words
“I am destined for greatness.” Upside down, it was a road map of Tucson, which is probably why I’ve always been inadvertently drawn to boring cities.
I never got the hang of sharing. Which is extremely ironic phrase...because I could share hanging. But that’s something I won’t get into here without my attorney present. I have rights.
I was never a very popular child. Most historians accredit this with my being a jerk. So while the other children were playing tag and hide and go seek, I was playing cops and robbers. No, I mean it. I was robbing places. For real. Please, why won’t anyone believe me?!!
I need professional help...first I’m holding up convenience stores, next, I’m shoplifting from them!
I was exposed to sex and violence at a very early age. I went to New York when I was six. That pretty much
I always liked to take things apart to see what makes them tick. Hearts make kitties tick...
But I remember one time, I got caught by my teacher dismantling the classroom computer. She said tsk-tsk and sent me to the office. I went, and later was found dismantling the school’s principal.
“BEHOLD, THE MAN AMONG THE TREES SHALL BE AS A RULER TO HIS PEOPLE...”
In case I haven’t yet, I think it’s about time I mentioned the lemurs. Lemurs you say? Why yes, the lemurs. They were the ones who raised me, what with my mother being dead and my father running the Scarlet Jyhad in Sudan. Mind you, I said LEMURS, and not WEASELS - the two are simply unfortunate parallels not only in Paul’s life and my own, but also in our ways of thinking.
Yes, while Paulo was being raised by weasels, I was being raised by the Lemur family, Patty and Bob, and weird
uncle Tobias Lemur. They took good care of me, teaching me their ways of lemurness. I learned the mating song of the lemur (“Ghost Riders In the Sky”), as well as the sacred secret burial ground of the lemur. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s in Reno.
The first time I met Paul was when the Lemurs and Weasels got together for a party at the Wallabies’ place. We instantly formed a bond, latching onto each others’ throats with vice-like grips while screaming like women. Soon after we became good friends because the court order said we had to be.
But one day, Bob and Patty Lemur decided it was time for me to go out into the world on my own. They came into my room to tell me, but as I was sitting on the floor playing with a piece of string and knawing on a strip of rawhide, they decided to tell me later.
I shall never forget the eventful day when I left the hole or tree or wherever the hell it is lemurs live. Amidst the hugs and tears, I wished them all luck, and they did the same. All except Weird Uncle Tobias Lemur, who handed me a Hershey bar and a slingshot, put his finger over his mouth, and said “Sssssshhhhhh...button the chicken...gonna figure it out, figure it out...”
But I knew I had to go, so I put on my laderhosen and neon puce fedora and flew away on my magic carpet, while
“Strawberry Fields” played in the background. Or maybe that was Woodstock 2...?
Cut to international airport in Rochester, NY...
I stepped off the plane and looked around. People saw
me and screamed. I guess they had never seen a Lemurboy
before. I took out a mirror and made sure that my purple body paint was okay and that my ample package was not concealed too much by the novelty light-up crotchless panties I had on.
Somehow or another, I ended up in Kansas, but it’s a very long story and I’m sure you don’t want to be bothered with it. So I ended up in Kansas, Auburn first, then Topeka, Holton, Kansas City, and finally Lansing. Lansing is dubbed the “City With a Future,” and its sister cities are Hiroshima, Roanoke, and Pompeii. It is a laugh riot, what with the racism and constant heat. Course, with the heat, it’s not so much that as the humidity, and with the racism, it’s not so much the hate as the stupidity.
I entered the Lansing high four years ago, and shortly thereafter started going to high school. There again I was fated to meet Paul. We were in Science Fiction class one day when we saw each other from across the crowded room. Our eyes met, and we knew that it was fate...we were meant for each other.
So we began seeing each other. Well, maybe “seeing” isn’t the right word, so much as “stalking.” We spent time with each other as “friends,” and had “fun” together. We “wrote” things together and “used quotes” at inappropriate “times.”
Some of the other people I met at Lansing include Katy “Tire Iron” Malloy, Jeff “Fucking Idiot” Blackard, and Seth
Church, Seth being my best friend. But enough about him.
Then one day I met...HER!!! Her MacNulty. I had never met a girl named Her before. She was fun. But then I met HER!!! No, not Her. Her. Katherine. Rose. Katherine Rose. Katherine Anne Rose. Junior. The third.
Anyway, I met her when Her and I broke up because of HIM!!! Him Johnson. But I’m not bitter. So back to the story. It’s not hard to find. Ninjas start chasing for body over mind. Those are the words that the master instructed but a letter from Shredder had Splinter abducted.
And after I defeated Shredder and rescued Splinter, I asked out Katherine. But when she said no, I had to ask out
Katherine Rose. She said yes, and we were very happy until the military took her away and now she’s in Germany.
“THE TIME I SAVED CHRISTMAS”
And then this one time I saved Christmas.
“AND WHAT OF MR. QUICK? NO MORE MR. QUICK. POOR, POOR MR. QUICK.”
And now I am in college. Hehehehehehehehehe. Gettin egewkatedd. Pity them, Lord, they know not what they do... College is keen cos I am learning how to be a better journalist and more efficient killer. Plus I’m meeting all kinds of new friends like Brooke and Becky and Nikki and Meg and Mary and Angela. Oh, and there are guys there too, I guess...
The Sixth Portion
I began a job at a KCK Radio Shack store, where I remain to this day. Unfortunately. But at any rate, it paid enough for me to move out of my mother’s home at the ripe old age of 19, and more importantly, out of Lansing. I moved into what was actually a rather nice single in the last decent half of KCK. The only drawback was the complete lack of maintenance and all the rap “music” and urban war drums coming from the back of every passing Pinto.
But at any rate, after two semesters of KCKCC, I decided it was time to go to college. So I made up my mind to move down to Lawrence Kansas and attend KU. HOWEVER - for the ‘99-’00 year, I am TAKING A BREAK FROM SCHOOL!!! The only reason I went when I did last year was because I was pressured into it. I was planning on taking a year off, but friends family and loved ones bitched so much I went then. However, after 40 hours of work a week and 16-20 hours of class a week, I needed a damn break. So I will begin attending KU in fall 2000. Swear.
I am in the right position, I currently live in Lawrence in a very nice apartment (with great maintenance, I might add) with my high school friend Anthony Abbott. I know, I know, I always swore I would never live with a homosexual, but really, I like to think that I’m above that type of immature attitude towards fags.
“LIFE AFTER KCKCC…IT CAN BE BETTER!”
I went to “school” at the Kansas City Kansas Community “College” for two semesters, which is exactly two semesters longer than I wish I had gone. Now don’t get me wrong, the school wasn’t all that bad, really. No, really. I’m being serious, stop laughing at me! The whole idea behind going there rather than or at least before an actual university looked really good on paper. The plan was to get my core subjects out of the way at a lower cost to me than KU or other universities would cost.
But when pinching pennies and holding purse strings, one must remember that one gets what one pays for.
So yes, I got those pesky cores out of the way, but the problem arose from the fact that everyone around me (with the possible exception of Paul) had a cumulative IQ somewhere between my shoe size and the amount of spare change I find in my couch cushions on any given day.
Walking down the halls at KCKCC is like a combination of a really bad Jerry Springer episode and an Eminem concert gone horribly awry. An over abundance of “Niggas,” “Trailer Trash,” “Wiggas,” and assorted other dredges of humanity prowled around like so many…prowl…guys.
Biographer’s Note - Any and all statements made herein are not to be taken as any type of racial or sexual put down. The biographer has nothing against any particular race, religion, or creed. Except the Russians. But then again, nobody likes the Russians. Any statements such as “Nigga” is simply the biographer’s attempt at using the slang of the KCK locals. And since the locals are mostly filthy minorities and rancid, flea infested white trash, the slang is understandably fucked way the hell up.
So anyhow, where was I? Oh, yeah, belittling KCKCC.
With the possible exception of the combined effects of vodka, codine, and
pot, I have never experienced such a “dumbing” effect. Walking through
the doors at KCKCC and attending class is like giving a guy a thousand dollars
to hit you on the head with stick while you are forced to watch Married:
With Children and eat macaroni and cheese with ketchup on it.
And having said my bit about community colleges, I shall digress.
“VODKA, CODINE, AND POT.”
Holy fucking shit I love writing fucking autobiographical shit man. Goddammit, I love life! I mean, holy shit, God made man and then woman and then said “Thou shalt get fucked up on vodka, codine, and pot!!!” And they did and God saw that it was gooooooooooooood and said “That was some primo shit, man.” God gave us vodka, codine, and pot so that I could get messed up! Holy good God damn!
Nine and Nine Again
“ROB GETS STUNG BY A B.”
Let me discuss nicknames for a minute, if I may. Many people have them, but with the exception of “cocksucker” and “bitch,” I never have. And I have one of the most bland, generic names in the world. “Robert.” Jesus Christ, what kind of name is that? I mean, in my high school alone, you could have taken 30 people at random, thrown them in a room, and said “Anyone named Rob step forward.” And probably 15 would have stepped up. So I have tried remedying this. I have gone by my middle name, which for the sake of your sanity I will not spell out, but this did not succeed in anything but getting me bashed outside dance clubs.
So then I tried variants of Robert, and found there are many, and all are exceedingly common. “Bob,” “Rob,” “Bobby,” “Robby,” “Ro,” “Bert,” and “Homo Sissy Boy.”
And suddenly one day the solution presented itself. I was sitting in a park minding my own business, when out of nowhere, a bee flew down and stung me right on the name. It got stuck, and from that day to this, there has been an extra “b” on my name. So I began calling myself “Robb,” and as is common with names, when you start going by them, people start calling you by it. It is very hard now to find my name written somewhere without two “b’s.”
And Robb is a completely different person from what Rob was. Robb is even more loud-mouthed, obnoxious, and even more of a raging alcoholic. You see, there is Drunkk Robb and Soberr Robb. And believe it or not, Drunkk Robb is quite a bit more sedate than Soberr Robb. If you want me to calm down and have a rational conversation about, say, the pros and cons of communism, just give me vodka or maybe a little Boulevard.
“AND RUNNING OUT OF SECTION HEADERS, ROBB MUST END HIS STORY…”
And that, dear children, is the story of Robb, at least
up to the point in time in which it was written since I can’t see into the
future. Yet. But soon. I can almost see it. With
my future-seeing ability.
But at any rate, I shall leave the story where it is. I’m sure that more super-fun-happy things will happen to me in the future, at which point I will be more than happy to bitch and moan and piss about it.
Sorry I didn’t get to tell you about the time I single handedly defeated the king Longshanks, freeing the Scottish people. Or the time I won freedom for the slaves in the South. Or the time when I assassinated President Kennedy. Or the time I had an
inappropriate relationship with Monica Lewenski, ejaculating on her dress, and laughing as Clinton took the fall. But that’s for next time, children.
So that’s the story of my life in a nutshell. And you don’t know hardship until you’ve lived in a nutshell.
Have a most superior day, friends. And don’t do anything I would do, including heroin and oral sex with fauna.
In the mean time, a few closing thoughts - no, I’m not losing my hair. GO KU! Yes, my roommate’s really gay. REALLY fucking gay. No, it doesn’t burn when I pee. Anymore. No, I don’t smoke. Crack. And Al Pacino is a GOD!!!
Until next time
Some stuff happened in Lawrence over a couple of years.
Then, I got the bright idea to come to Virginia. It had to be better than Kansas, right? I mean, c’mon…Blue Ridge Mountains, the Shenandoah River, life is old there, even older than the trees, yet younger than the mountains, it’s growin' like a breeze. Sounded good to me. Oh, that and the mad Virginia pussy, obviously. My homies with testosterone know what I’m talkin’ about.
So I applied at this school EMU…for Eastern Mennonite University. No shit. I know what you’re all thinking…”But Robb, you’re Catholic by breeding, and satanic by deed. What the hell are you doing in a tiny (1,300 student) Christian college?” And I remind you, dear reader, of the mad mountain puss.
So I get here, and what a wonderland I find, truly. My mortal eyes can barely take it all in…the miles of glittering railroad tracks, the mountain ranges of feed silos, the “bad day at KFC” aroma wafting through the air. It’s enough to make a man cry, and believe me, I did cry a lot.
Upon arrival at my new apartment, I find a tiny place, miles from my school and with no air conditioning, garbage disposal, dishwasher, balcony, three-prong outlets, only one phone jack by the back door, and one cable jack also near the back door. There is more crying at this point.
I finally finished unpacking, which took two days because I was on my own. I got everything out, and all the boxes unpacked and everything assembled and put away in four days total. Then I got robbed. I don’t have as much stuff now. I cried more.
The internet is not accessible from my apartment, unless I want to get AOL. That’s the only provider here. That doesn’t really matter though, because my computer doesn’t work anymore.
As of my writing this, I have four dollars in quarters and a few bucks in nickels and dimes. Luckily I have just started working, but because of stupid pay periods I won’t get a check for a couple of weeks yet. I’m so hungry…
Plus I miss everyone. I mean, believe it or not, Kansas sounds good now. I hear her voice, in the mornin' hour she calls me, and the radio reminds me of my home far away, and driving down the road I get a feeling, I should have been home yesterday, yesterday.
So that’s sort of where I’m at now. Here at the heart of the Confederacy. America’s armpit. And the mountain puss is good, but most of it carries pepper spray so it’s kinda hard for me to score sometimes.