I can remember my teacher now, during one of the last classes I took: a tall skinny short guy with no eyes. I mean teeth. That day we were interacting with the space and people around us usual. "Okay, Hani and Gabriel," he said, "today I want you to envision that you are supporting between you, using only your hands, heads, and chest, a large glass bubble filled with a psychoreactive plasma which will explode if either of you think a thought involving the word 'Tuesday'." Well, I thought of Tuesday immediately and completely demolished the classroom. I was kicked out of acting school kind of quickly.
After a while wondering what I was going to do with my life I was "discovered" by the Department of Defense when the Joint Chief of Staffs at the time looked at a gun I was drawing in crayon. I was immediately drafted into the weapons design division and put to work. I probably don't have to tell you what happened next. You've all heard about the Eviscerator fiasco, right? That was me. I was told to design a portable anti-plane/tank/personell rifle to help us win the next war. It sounded like they were pretty anxious to start the next war, so I hurried. I produced the prototype for the Eviscerator 2000 in three weeks. I called it the Eviscerator 2000 because it sounded cool. The design was simple: a portable rail gun that shot flaming refrigerators filled with a colloidal suspension of knives and angry dogs in napalm. The target would be simultaneously blugeoned, burned, frozen, sliced, mangled, bitten, and clawed.
Its reception was not that great.
After the accident, I enlisted in the Army Special Forces to see if the drill sergeants were really as mean as they looked in the movies. Actually they were pretty nice, but didn't have much of a sense of humor. Lighting M-80's in the mess hall really irrates them after the third or fourth time. Oh, and if you ever go into the military, don't go up to those airborne guys and grab the wings on their shirts and make flapping noises; they really hate that. Like punch-you-in-the-face hate that. But that reminds me of some neat things to do while you're in an elevator.
I was put on KP duty for a while every time I screwed up, until they decided that it wasn't working. I was told to wash dishes and to wash them quickly. I logically concluded that if something was broken, I didn't have to clean it, and things would go much quicker. So KP duty with me ended up sounding like: "...*CRASH* Whoops! Don't have to clean that one... *CRASH* Whoops! Don't have to clean that one... *CRASH*" And so on. I eventually was assigned to a desk job as an acting staple remover.
Well, Special Forces went along okay for the most part, barring repeated threats from high-ranking officials who wore monocles and for some reason called me "Hogan", until someone caught me deliberately ignoring the "No Horseplay" signs by the weapons shack. That was the seventeenth and final "last straw". They booted me out of there and flew me back home. Actually they kind of just flew by my house and dropped me out, our street had potholes. Big potholes from my Manhole Cover Tiddlywinks days as a child, have I mentioned that yet?
So there I was, thirteen years old, kicked out of the army. It was a shame, I know. Most of my friends had thought I was at camp, so I didn't catch flak from them.
I made a living as a modern sculpter for a while, until the media
discovered I was actually assigning meaning to my work, and I was
subsequently ousted from the art world.
Since my imagination isn't dead yet, I'm still constructing this page.
Back to my homepage.
