February 12, 2012

Johnny cakes? What the hell are Johnny cakes?

enter the abyss.

CXXI

Welcome back. I've missed you. And surely you've missed me too. Biscuit.

There will be some of you who are new readers. Normally at the start of a new season I give a short spiel about who I am and what I do. But instead of that, I'm gonna tell you my life story.

So. I was born on a boat (motherfucker) off the coast of Switzerland in 1932. My parents emigrated to Curryland a week after that, and I followed then a week after that. My evil identical twin brother emigrated to France in 1964, and decided he liked it so much that he stayed. We had one cat.

Growing up in the streets of Curryland was not much different to growing up in the streets of Antarctica. I had friends, but they decided to emigrate to Atlantis. At age 23, I moved away from my parents' house to the one next door, which happened to be right on the border. Biscuit. So, half the time I was in Curryland, the other half, Currytopia. Living there was pretty good, as long as I avoided the occasional terrifying border skirmish.

When I started forging my media career at age 104, my four-year unpaid internship meant that I had to learn to survive on nothing but Pringles. I did, however, learn a bit of salty language as a result. Near the end of the fourth year, I walked back home, ducked under the crossfire of a border skirmish, ate some Pringles, scratched my pooch behind the ears. It was at that point in my life that I had the most profound thought ever.

As a result, my media career skyrocketed (at age 55), I started writing my own blogshow (The CJ Curry Experience, of course), and began raking in the dough (and as a result, I've never been able to get the flour stains out of my clothes. Or my rake). I am now a semi-successful entrepreneur, but I still can't believe that there's no French word for entrepreneur. I have one cat.

Also, I'm 211 years old. Biscuit.

I endeavour to do the same shit I've been doing for the last three years, in blog format. Which is... I forget.

Incidentally, if you see a helicopter screaming over your head right now, it means I have selected you for the CJ Curry Prize. Congratulations! You are the Curryland Citizen Of The Decade and have been awarded one thousand CJ-points. Which, as it happens, is the exact cost of the letter you need to mail in to me in order to register for the prize. Camels are ineligible, as are quokkas.

Your death will be exquisite, and I will see you again soon.

Biscuit. DAMMIT BISCUIT, STOP CHASING THAT BIRD AND COME AND GET YOUR SUPPER.

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