I was raised in a seedy urban environment where vagrants recited Chaucer and whiskey drinking nuns beat us impressionable delinquent youths with 18 inch rulers. I learned to use my fists and applied a full-nelson to Sister Mary Klondyke during a 7th grade art class. Simply because I spat beer into her sandpaper textured face was no reason for her to strike me with a tire iron; I responded as only I knew how.  Enraged by this tactical defeat the Catholic school system ejected me and my schooling took to the filthy streets of a ship building town in Kansas. The town fell on hard times as completed oil tankers posed a logistics problem getting to an ocean port.    

      Lacking formal education and any technical skills I became a night laborer in a plastics mine. The day laborer jobs were all taken by unemployed situation comedy actors from previous programming seasons. There I learned the code of manhood learning to swallow beer and not merely projectile spew it into the faces of religious vocationists. There I learned to sleep on a makeshift Styrofoam bed and eat bubble wrap. My nights became days as I was discovered by wrestling promoter Vince MacMann. I morphed into a new persona, Plastique Man. My resilience in the ring was matched only by my propensity to brutalize my opponents with rhythmic tone poems based on canticles from Chaucer. Upon retirement I had enough money to by my first love's Chevy Nova and have it repainted cobalt blue by Earl Scheib, and install a performance engine. I added those flame like cockamamie on the sides and a set of little fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. I also got one of those little tree shaped deodorizers. I finally became a sophisticate thus damning the memories of my grade school years of academic bondage.