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Where do we begin? Our fathers were relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owners from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. Our mothers were fifteen-year old French prostitutes named Chloe with webbed feet. Our fathers would womanize, drink, make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy... the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess in the insane lament. Our childhood was typical... summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When we were insolent, we were placed in burlap bags and beaten with reeds... pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, we received our first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved our meaty testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking, we suggest you try it.