You’re Kidding? Right?

Daily writing prompt

If there were a biography about you, what would the title be?

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That’s correct, the title would be, “You’re kidding? Right?”

And no, I’m not quite that egoist to believe that I’m as great as all that, done so many unique things, or moved great circles. It’s just that I’ve racked up enough “that’s a bit bizarre” credits that I skew a bit further out in the outfield than many of my peers. There would be two volumes.

Volume I – Hubba- Hubba!

The first would be about growing up in New York City. It would contain juicy stories about my time as a folksinger in Greenwich Village. Special attention would be given to those scandal-ridden stories about the famous performers doing weird stuff at parties. Trust me, certain people might pay to have those parts redacted. You know who you are; could you pay up? It was a “playful” time.

But wait! There is more! Most of my peers of the sixties were similar to me. Horrible? I know. I wrote a raft of stories about them and the oddball place we lived in called the Folkie Palace on the backside of Boston’s Beacon Hill. To write the stories, I had to tone some things down and only exaggerate a bit on others. We all had “handles” names we lived by – The Teahead of the August Moon, the Monk, Mike the Vike, the Canary, my best friend Bill, who was Captain Zero, Our Almost Friend John ( the con artist), and others.

Then there were the years I lived with my cat Clancy, AKA The Grey Menace. I still joke that his favorite treat was O-negative blood. But I don’t exaggerate. he had a short fuse, claws that could open an arm in a swat, and then there he was clinically licking off the blood, “Yum! Fresh O-negative, my favorite!” He did have taste in women, however. He had a reliably low regard for 95% of them. Even the loveliest! Then, when I brought my sweetie home, he was in her lap in a second, “You can leave now. Mom and I are going to cuddle.” Of course, with an endorsement like that, I married her.

Volume II – Boring!

Of course, things get rather mundane after that. Marriage, four kids, I got boring. I went from a Pirate to a drone. The second volume probably won’t sell ten copies.

And I only am escaped to tell thee, as the narrator points out in Job and Moby Dick. As such, I’m the one with the last exclusive word. Care to order an autographed prepublication copy of the first volume?