palace of winds

My name is Bob. When I was eight, I joined the circus. It was all the elephants that got to me — a fascination with big ears, I guess. I spent the next five years moisturizing their knees. During that time I was taken under the wing of an aging, cross-dressing acrobat who trained me in the way of circus folk and bee keeping. One thing led to another, and I ended up serving cocktails at the UN, but unfortunately my allergy to green wool stockings forced me to quit that job and begin my life as a vagrant/hired assassin. Like all vagrant/hired assassins, I spent two years in a rotting Mexican prison before digging my way out with a rusted spoon and finally making my way to Wall Street where I earned my first million selling cheese dip for hot salted pretzels. My partner was busted for tax fraud and I decided to leave the life in pursuit of higher education.

In my first year at Truman State, I suffered a massive heart attack and died. The mad scientist who lives in the catacombs beneath Science Hall unearthed me and restored me to life via a risky experiment involving osmosis and candy corn. I have the brain of a psychopath, the heart of a baboon, and the toe of an emu. I also have 67 cats who I have trained via our psychic connection to jump above the ceiling tiles in my dorm room whenever the SA or George Bush is near. At night we huddle beneath my bed while my roommate performs elaborate seances, calling upon the baboon donor of my heart in an attempt to turn me and my cats into an evil army of semi-undead bee keepers. Come to think of it, my father always did say there was a fortune to be made in honey somehow.

When I’m not training my cats for the 2004 Olympics synchronized swimming competition, I enjoy the long walk to McClain, junk email, and cricket infestations. This coming winter I hope to debut my new recipe for the Honey Bun, so watch your grocer’s bread aisle.