I am a tool, and because of that my biceps glisten with the forgotten sweat of my ancestors. My voice is as the celebratory roaring of a masculine lioness. My hips don’t lie but they never speak the truth either, they speak half truths. My abs grant blessings on those who are fortunate enough to touch them. I never wear cologne, I just breath on myself. My body odor instantly heals terminal diseases. One time, I harmonized so perfectly with the sound of angels laughter that all evil in the world stopped for 2 seconds. I have been given the nickname Thunder-hips for my dazzling performance in every dance competition since the late 1940’s. I once told a joke that made the King of Scotland laugh so hard that he executed his entire staff and finally executed himself. My armpits are where unicorns go to be healed of their wounds and find solace in dark times. My heart constantly beats to the tune of Lady Gagas “Bad Romance.” My hair is the harvested tears of Aphrodite after a bad break up.
