Fellow misfits, miscreants and malcontents, as the proud Publisher & Flounder of the Less Than Prestigious On-line Publication:
Eat The Press – Don’t Read It! The content is worthless; the value is in the pulp when you eat it! So, eat it, Michael. Don’t Beat it. That is so passé, I hereby, declare that I had no part in printing these lies.
For those of you that do not know me, do not be alarmed, for I do not know me, either. “Suck it up, Socrates”, I say. “Know thyself”, who says something like? Can you imagine someone saying to you, “Pardon me, Sir, did you know yourself this morning”? “POW, right smack dab in the kisser”, I suspect, is the standard, traditional, real red-meat, red neck, knee-jerk 'Merican male response to such a personal question. Friends, Romans and Cunt-three men, lend me your ears, for I am deaf, dumb, and, damn near blind, or, so my frenemies claim.Fellow Newsvine.com misfits, I stand before you, because if I stood behind you, you would not be able to see me, or, think I was up to frisky business. I am not! No, sir, I am up to serious business. My Fellow Facebook, Twitter and Newsvine.com misfits, ‘Merica Is Goin’ to Hell in a Handbag! What difference does it make if it’s a designer’s handbag? It’s still a damn handbag – probably made in China and sold on the street of ‘Merica by illegals, takin’ good jobs away from our ‘Merican boys, recently paroled.
Who am I? Well, kindred souls, (Caitlyn Jenner), my name is Wintrope Merridethe, The III. I am 5’ 6¾ inches tall, 74.5 years
of age and covered with shingles from the barn. It helps with the installation, cooling in the Summer and warm in the Winter. Like the president I, too, am bi-racial, black from the waist down where it counts; white from the waist up where it doesn't. In short, as I am, one might say, I am Bi-pedal, Bi-racial, Bi-partisan, and bi-polar. Most folks don’t want to know this but, my parents were both “Lesbos”, who left me in a shoe box at a neighbor’s house. Uncle Al promptly tossed me into the trash, where I have remained for most of my life. Thankfully, my hovel was situated in a slip, sliding, rapidly declining slum, so the Garbage man came once ever 15 years. By that time, I had run off with a with a lovely, big breasted Milk Lady whom I licked. Dare I tell more? I was raised by idiots. It wasn’t until I grew up and moved away that I realized I was living with the neighbors. I never knew my parents. Mother died at childbirth, her own, and Father passed away,
or ran away at age 9. I was raised by my Weird Uncle Al. Everyone has at least one weird Uncle Al, that show up drunk at all Holidays blabbering nonstop about politics, religion and the state of his health. Well, sadly to say, I had two. Uncle Al was schizophrenic. We never knew who was gonna show up. Every morning Uncle Al would kick me up the steps and then down the steps. One morning after being kicked up the stairs and, then down, or versa visa, I decided to do something about it – I tore out the steps, but, that didn’t stop him. What stopped him was falling into the hole where the steps used to be. Immediately, thereafter, before the police arrived, I packed my belongings into my watch pocket and headed off to California in search of fame and fortune.
What I found was ground round, hanging around comedy clubs and getting beaten up by ugly, brawny girls covered in tattoos. It was so humiliating, but, I loved it. To this day, I get queasy whenever a woman walks past me in spiked heels, or, spiked hair. I purloined the name, Wintrope Merridethe, The III, from a fellow college freshman, who had a better criminal record that I, and, worse eyesight. It’s classy sounding and I needed class, because I had no pants. Once I started “performing”, or, in the trades they say, “tomato gathering”, I used his name, because mine was marred in civil suits. I did this also for “pay back”. You see, in college, I was confined to my dormitory on the weekends by school authorities and the health department. Lonely and isolated I struck up a friendship with the real Wintrope Meredith, the III, from Allentown, Pennsylvania. I was so thrilled to actually know someone that could spell Pennsylvania without assistance. It was love at first sight. Wintrope was rich and a snob to boot, which he gave me frequently when I pestered him too much with questions about how he spent his week-end holiday. He was the first rich person I had ever met, and, the second person to speak to me without hitting me first. I was thrilled as he regaled me with tales of “Life of the Filthy, Indolent Rich”. He explained the goings on at his country club, “The Hanging Garden of Babylon” where near naked women were always on display, which caught my interest immediately. Well, to make a boring short story shorter, it turned out that he was as poor as I was and was making up stories for my delight. Everyone in our dormitory, even the mice knew it was a lark, save me. But, after a year, I figured it out, also.
I was tossed into a deep depression when the light of day hit me, or when I was clubbed by the night watchman who threw me down the laundry shoot, “just for fun”. The night shift was so boring, he had to invent his own games to pass the time. Anyway, I wasn’t upset with Wintrope for fooling me, most folks do, but, I was sadden by losing my connection with the “rich folks”. It was deeply disturbing. I vowed revenge then and there, and now, after 45 years of continuous shame, I am finally extracting my revenge by using his name. These days, when not tied to my iron post bed, here, at the Dick Cheney Nursing Home for Non Repentant Republicans, I send my column, Eat The Press – Don’t Read It to his home town, via pigeon carrier, and, the mayor, Greasy Gyros, flogs the real Wintrope Merridethe, The III on every other weekends just fer fun. It’s odd how things work out, isn’t it? Who wants to hear more? Raise your hand. Who wants to throw up? Shut up! You just
read regurgitated the first Installment of – The Boring, Snoring Life & Crimes of Wintrope Merridethe, The Trey! Hey, have a good day!