I was born in Fistwood, Tennessee to a ropey-muscled farmer named Calhoun Jackson, and his wife Delilah Jackson. What I remember in those first months of my life include: jacking off in Delilah's womb, playing soccer with her placenta, and mostly basting in fetal juices. Whenever she got "comfortable" with my father (and believe me, I could tell; those walls were thin) I'd kick around her insides like fucking Pelé. They got the picture quick.
The day I came out was Mother's Day. I had to time it just right so she couldn't finish breakfast in bed and funnel down those awful crêpes. She delivered me in the living room, right on the bear rug. The first thing I reached for, sitting there on that gutted grizzly all damp with blood and mom-juice, was the cigar in my father's mouth. He lifted me up and pulled the machete from the dinner table to cut the umbilical, and right then, I ripped that cigar from his mouth and stuck it in my own. I still remember that first puff.
Ever since then, I've been Living. No, no, no. Not being alive. Fucks like you "be alive." I don't deal with the IRS, the PTA, or any bureaucratic ejaculate. If I want something, I take it. If I feel like climbing Kilimanfuckingjaro, I climb it, no forms filed, no questions asked, no cyclone of Q&A with work, family, or friends. Sure, it's roughed me up now and then. I've had my share of cuts and bruises and abductions. But I'll tell you about that later on.
What you need to know now is that most of what I tell you may seem hard to believe, but every ounce of it is true. I've been places you can't imagine. I've seen things that made lesser men break down. And all of it, every word, really happened.
But before I blaze ahead, drink the rest of your Chardonnay, you fuck. That shit was expensive.