My butt is living its own life; I am merely its carrier. Yes, I am a person and my butt is part of me, but if you knew my butt, you would know that it merits its own life story. So here it is. In 1983, my butt was born, attached to me. It was, in many ways, a butt like many other butts, but over time it grew and grew, bigger and more rotund than the rest of me, and with the consistency of uncooked sourdough. Continue Reading
I’m a wog and this means I grow hair from many locations on my face and body, and my pubes can wrap around the Earth. It’s the price I pay for being able to make my own gnocchi. And sure, once upon a time, I didn’t care for this balance sheet. “I’m sorry,” Mum told me, “but you have a moustache and you need to do something about it.” I did what I usually do in situations where I have no control: threatened to kill everyone and blamed my parents. Continue Reading
I’m a wog. And I can say “wog” because I am one.
My father, like many other wogs, came out on a boat from the old country (Italy) in the ’60s. His father (my nonno) was an ex-soldier who fought under Mussolini and took a bullet in the butt for the Nazi cause. His mother (my nonna) is a homemaker who believes that God blew up the Challenger spacecraft because humans were trying to get “higher than Him” and blowing them up was his way of saying, and I quote, “Fuck you.”