So you think you know me? Well, what if I shared my life story with you – using alternative facts?
First, let me assure you that nothing would change from the original story of my birth.
I was born a coal miner’s daughter. As some of you may recall, I am an only child. Unless you count my siblings. But this is my story so I’ll decide what is or isn’t a fact.
Okay, maybe I do have a brother named Edward. And my name is John. Some of the more astute readers may look at those names and say, “A-Ha! John and Edward KENNEDY!”
Yes, I’m a scion of the famous Kennedy family. Or, I would be, if I knew what the hell a scion is. But my Kennedy kin kind of disavowed me because I did not have the attractive, athletic build they favored.
I wasn’t Hyannisport material, as much as I was Hyannisportly.
So I packed my grip and left the compound behind. The Compound W, that is. As things turned out, I wish I had kept the Compound W.
I moved to New York City, figuring if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere. I spent my teenage years in New York, living underground as a mutant ninja turtle.
Until the day I was accidentally bitten by a radioactive writer. I soon realized that I was developing super powers and, thus, I became the Amazing Writer-Man. I started with line type, cut and paste, until the day I became a bonafide Worldwide Web Slinger.
But it wasn’t that easy. When I first began to develop my writing skills, I realized one important thing: with great power comes great irresponsibility.
Of course I abused my newfound writing gift; though some of my best work can still be found on some of your finer restroom walls.
When I tired of my endeavors in potty poetry, I began to think of how I might make my mark upon the world.
Baseball fans may recall how I broke the coloring barrier. It seems that I could never stay between the lines.
Still needing to make a living, I moved to Memphis and soon became the Alternate Facts King of Rock and Roll, with such hits as “That’s All White, Mama” and “Hit the Road, Black.”
About that time I met The Colonel.
Colonel Don was a tireless self-promoter, but he knew what the audience wanted. Originally I was billed as John the Pelvis, but that name didn’t catch on. And then Sun Records signed some kid whose name actually rhymed with pelvis – what were the odds? – and my label dropped me.
I wonder whatever happened to that pelvis kid? He’s probably working in a fast-food joint in Kalamazoo or something.
After failing as John the Pelvis, I reinvented myself as The Hillbilly Albino Cat. I was a major draw at certain hooded conventions, where it turned out Colonel Don was also popular.
Soon albino cats everywhere were holding lighters up in their tiny paws and shouting “White Pawer!”
They decided they weren’t going to take it anymore. But the Albino Cats bided their time. They knew if they could find an Albino Cat with orange hair, they could make him president of the United States.
As for me, I tired of the rock god’s lifestyle. I mean, you can only grab so many women by their whatever before you just want to kick back and watch “Game of Thrones.”
I accepted my destiny to become the Amazing Writer-Man and spent many enjoyable hours producing fake news all across the country.
But after my fourth Pulitzer Prize, I decided to step away from my lucrative journalism career and experience life as an impoverished would-be author.
John Christian Hopkins, an award-winning novelist and humor columnist, is a member of the Narragansett Indian Tribe. See his writings at http://authorjohnchopkins.blogspot.com.
