The Seven Deadly Sins Lies

She got up close, and personally sneaking a link in my drink - which she had the audacity to accuse yours truly of doing! - quickly sped away, cackling in all her sultry glee.

I might have to rethink this whole 'FranIAm is a good Christian woman,' because lordy, she certainly is not! In order to wash away this naughty feeling, I must confess seven facts about myself. Seven untrue facts. Confused? Don't be. Let me enlist the help of a well-respected celebrity to explain today's proceedings:

Hello. I'm Leonard Nimoy. The following tale of revelation is true. And by true, I mean false. It's all lies. But they're entertaining lies. And in the end, isn't that the real truth? The answer is, no.


Thanks, Leonard, for making everything as clear as crystal.

Now, onto the faits faux de moi.

1. I was the Fifth Beatle. But they weren't rockin' enough for me, so I quit those mop tops and became the Sixth Stone. I don't want to come right out and say I came up with a lot of the Glimmer Twins' most memorable riffs, as that would be bad form, so I won't.

2. But wait, you all shout, you're not that old, Randal! Ah, mes amis, how easily we forget! Who do you think wrote all those works, Lord Byron himself? Bah! You try penning The Giaour, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and Don Juan when nearly all of your time is spent chasing skirts through every tavern and alleyway in Europe!

3. Before my blogging days, I was a male model. The others were so jealous of my rugged good looks and vast bevy of female admirers that I was blackballed out of the industry.

4. I strut before the windows naked because, hey, I'm all about returning the pleasure to those admirers constantly camped out on my front lawn.

Karma, man, karma.

5. I invented the Thermos.

6. I never cry, because crying is for girls.

7. Once I saved a school bus full of children by shouting a cloud of obscenities at the driver of an 18-wheeler headed straight for them that was so vile, so heinous, the mere sonic vibration of unlimited fucks, motherfuckings, fucking assholes, goddamn fuckerys and go-fuck-yourself-you-fucks shorted the circuits of the rig's on-board computer and the synapses in his brain to where they both instantly and simultaneously shut down, the weight of his comatose body transferring to his left foot to where he slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to within inches of the screaming, youthful horde. No one was hurt, and I got a key to the city that was made of chocolate. I ate it on the way home, but I still have the gold foil wrapper framed above my fireplace, which I also strut naked in front of when the mood strikes.

Nothing gives me greater joy than spreading the sin around, than corrupting the incorruptible, so consider yourselves fellow shish-kabobs in various circles of hell: Mary Ellen, Marjorie, Candace, Snave, Colleen.