A lot of people have asked me, "How did you become a writer?"
It all started in Tibet. I was a spiritual advisor for the Dalai Lama and had taken a solemn vow of silence. One day in the temple, while in deep meditation, a mischievous monk gave me a hotfoot. Who says monks don't have a sense of humor? Not only did I break my vow of silence, the words I shouted in anguish got me excommunicated.
Distraught, I set out searching for a new meaning to my life. I ended up in Thailand where I made a meager living shoveling snake poop. I lived on the streets and what little money I made went for food, but try as I may, I never got used to the taste of cat.
I came back to the states and got a job as a roadie for Aerosmith. During a concert in Albuquerque, as I ran out to switch one of Joe Perry's guitars, I tripped and fell off the stage. My face hit the floor of the arena, causing my lips to swell immediately. With my hair past my shoulders in typical "Rock & Roll" fashion, the crowd thought I was Steven Tyler, and groped and clawed me until my flowing locks and every stitch of clothing were ripped from my body. When the trucks pulled out for the next gig in Santa Fe, they left me behind. Naked.
Bald, dehydrated, and sunburned beyond recognition, I somehow made it through the desert to the town of Roswell, New Mexico, where I was rescued by a group of UFO watchers. Due to my physical appearance, they mistakenly thought I was an alien from another planet. They offered to give me food and shelter at their UFO commune if I taught them the secrets of the universe.
Life was good at the commune, which I renamed "Ronnieverse." I wanted for nothing and every night I would counsel one of my female followers on the various methods of alien probe techniques. I had a good thing going until the FBI showed up with guns, tear-gas and armor-plated ATVs.
Incarceration was not as bad as I thought it would be. It was kind of like high school, but no girls. I knew I could only hold off the butt pirates for so long, so I called the FBI guys and rolled on a group of bikers who I knew from my days as a roadie. "Satan's Hemorrhoids" were a mean bunch, whose interest in do-it-yourself chemistry was frowned upon by the G-men.
After my release from custody, I came back to Dayton and, once again, contemplated life. I came to the conclusion that I had not yet lived to my full potential, so I decided to drink heavily. That's when I met my wife.
She was entering the Federal Building to sign up for the Peace Corps. I was inebriated, and had drawn the attention of two of Dayton's finest, who had yet to test out their recently issued Tazers and expandable batons. As I lay convulsing and bleeding on the sidewalk, the woman who would be my wife stopped to look at me. In her mind, she weighed out which would be her greatest mission of mercy: feeding pigmies in the Congo, or marrying me.
And that's how I became a writer.