When You Say Something Out Loud, That Makes It True

Today is a special day for you, my dear readers, my victims, my foils and my fools. Today you get to learn about my boss. No, I am not talking about you. You are not now, nor will you ever be, the boss of your twisted narrator. I am talking about the boss at my work. If you didn't already know, I am currently building a house. The alternate title for this post was "the house that Don Juan built," by the way. Or, possibly, "my five billionth house, for I am the greatest man alive."

Oh, how I wish I was referring to myself when I make such spurious claims! But alas, just as you are not the boss of me, I am also not the boss of me. The boss of me, heretoforward, shall be referred to as Willy Nilly Dillsnick. Or, WND.

WWND: What would Negroponte do? But I digress.

Without getting into the hopeless minutiae of this man's totally fabricated experience, because I am sure to give you regular updates as they occur, allow me to tell you this: by my tally, after spending a couple of weeks working for this guy, is that he's slept with more women than Wilt Chamberlain, built half of vancouver by himself, and collected at least ten million dollars in earnings over the last twenty years. Oh, he's also 175 years old and has lived in more cities than there are in the entire Star Trek universe. Yes, he is truly an amazing man. Or at least that's what he claims. His nickname needs a nursery rhyme, an epic pome, a fucking encyclopedia.

Stay tuned, assholes, because if I have to listen to his shit all fucking day, you're sure as hell going to hear about it when you read this moodyville shit. And you will read this moodyville shit.