I always wanted to write a book where I call the general populace a bunch of limp dicks and desiccated pussies, however, my editor refused to publish anything so honest. Luckily, I am the master of work-arounds. So, in the guise of modeling hard-dickitude and wet-pussiness, I managed to trick my editor into publishing this memoir by concealing my recriminations inside stories.

Follow me as I take Kerouac's On the Road beneath a table. Oddly enough, there were nearly as many drug dealers, sexpots, and weirdoes in an "empty" room at a reception hall as there were if you had hitchhiked across America in the late 1940s.

While hiding from both management and low-lifes alike, I secreted myself behind the white shroud of a skirted table. Beneath this table, I found friendship, love and a workable philosophy on how to live life. Lying prone beneath a rectangular skirted table, I learned, ironically enough, how to think outside the box.

Also, I've never actually had an editor.