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"Master Grill Sergeant"

 Call me Gup. My story is rather ordinary and few have bothered to listen to it its entirety. As a child I was instructed in the art of Drunken Bison grilling and although this is my chosen form of competition, do not be surprised if I improvise with a little Ho-chi Chin. Adaptation is the name of the game. Its defenses are insurmountable when combined with the Tsao-ting methodology of grill preparation. It is not my duty to judge you, for that is the responsibility of your Grilling God; I can only arrange the meeting.

Oh Captain! My Captain! How my relationship with The Captain was forged remains a guarded secret, for it is whence I draw my powers. Captain Morgan favored the spicy life, and a glass of his favorite rum…his feats were many, his exploits endless and his thirst: legendary. My weakness, my Achilles Heal if you will, is Shakespearean sonnets. The lure of iambic pentameter entrances my senses, and imprisons my soul, leaving me defenseless.

Fuck! Ass! Oh the torment that is Turret's syndrome can make for some uncomfortable situations. However I have found that it comes in handy when dealing with the bushmen of Kokomundo. The tales I could recount of bartering with Chief Talehango. His penchant for small fury animals and fear of the English Curse has allowed me to walk away with incredible deals. And yet I digress.

This unauthorized biography has gone on in no particular order or fashion, merely an incongruous flow of mental matter. According to the prophecy, let it now take form. I let my actions speak for me, for was it not Confucius who said, "Let your actions speak for you," 'Your' meaning mine and 'you' meaning me. Right. So I live life from one day to the next expecting at every turn an enemy waiting to pounce, which has led to a self-medication of downers and booze. End Transmission.