Sometimes a title says it all. Later! -Steven

Alright. I probably already ruffled feathers with my “FIRST TUMBLR TITLE EVER!!” and my response is a mixture of “I don’t care” blended with the fact I’m distracted by the crispy lusciousness of my Kit Kat. Not that I don’t care what people think. Truly, I do. But honestly, consider similar incidents. The heartless fuck that laced Bambi’s mom with buckshot. He hasn’t fired a gun since that movie, but people would still pay cash to see him burn. Not enough? Try John Wilkes Booth. How many times did he kill a president? (The answer is one for all you Jeopardy fanatics) And look how he was received. Shot to death in a burning barn. Now I understand that a the president has a little bit more clout than a “Bad Newz Kennels” dog, but the point remains the same. Just because Michael Vick has served his time, and hasn’t fought any dogs since his scandal (to our knowledge), and continues to play in the NFL, doesn’t exempt him from my blog titles.

Now that my mission to make you think I’m a total jackass is complete, I’ll tell you some honest facts about myself. My name is Steven King. My father was a full-blooded mexican mailman (Danny Trejo minus the film career), and my mother was a full-blooded psychotic. When my father found my mother she was sitting inside an abandoned 1989 Ford Tempo just outside of Poughkeepsie, NY. My father, who was an honest man, (he told everyone he was a rapist), proceeded to drop his mail bag, and enter the Tempo. The biggest mistake of his life just happened to be the initial moment of mine. What happened in that car is, I can’t say. The details are cloudy to say the least. Stan Jones, a resident of the Poughkeepsie neighborhood, described the sounds coming from the car as, “A whore with windchime earrings giving head to a mountain lion.” Nine months later, I was born.

My childhood was an adventurous one. I lived with my foster parents, Doug and James Jones. They were great. I remember playing ball for hours. Practicing pitching and catching. I was never really any good, but they were never upset. They just kept reminding me that it was good to experiment and try things out. So I did. I played soccer, went bike riding, and I even made a few of those little bead animals all the kids were hanging from their backpacks. It wasn’t until I was ten years old that I discovered my destiny, and it arrived on our doorstep. Call it fate that the mailman would deliver me the only item of my father’s that I would ever possess, but on that fateful day, the postman handed me my brown box of fate. I snatched it away faster than a roadrunner fuck and began to rip off the packing tape. I could not wait. All the mystery. All the questions. I knew that inside the box there was going to be a clue, if not answers to my beginning. I had waited so long. Finally, after all the tape was gone, I pried open the carton and stared down at what I knew was going to change my life. In my ten year old hands I held…my father’s fleshlight. Fuck. Me. Running. Doug and James snatched my father’s fraudulent pussy from my hands and began to tell me about how what I saw isn’t everything and how I need to take my time. Of course at age ten, I had no idea what it was outside of worthless to me. Although I was initially let down by the idea of my father sending me a broken flashlight, my eye quickly caught onto something else. The return address on the box.

I’ve since been to that address and found not my father (nor my mother), but an old friend of his. He looked like a chalky, meth-worn version of Willem Dafoe and had a pet rock who he continued to include in our conversation, asking it questions like, “Could you check the pot roast?”. He told me a long story about how my dad’s fleshlight got mixed up with his luggage after a trip the two of them had taken to Branson, MO. When asked why he didn’t just send it back when he found it, he replied, “He had to leave in a real hurry. I went ahead and looked after her while he was away.” Epic. He didn’t really provide me with any real details about my father’s whereabouts, just tales of how he fought alongside Robert Duvall in Vietnam, accompanied by the occasional vigorous crotch scratch or comment to Linda. She never did check the roast.

Well, with all that being said I’d say you’re pretty well caught up on my history. Any updates I find about my father/mother, or just my thoughts on any given day I’m liable to post. Thank you for your time.

Wrapping up, I feel very confident that this tumblr will not only prove to be as useless as a sponge condom, but it should make me feel a bit better as I remember writing posts like this on Xanga. Back when sex was simply what made movies hit the R rating and when my Pokemon were undoubtedly better than your Pokemon. Talk with you guys soon.

With Love- Steven