George Perham

Long gone were the days of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters and his FuRther destination, heavy metal had also seen its own treacherous hay day-- here we find George Perham in the middle of this postmodern paradox-- infatuated with neither culture, however, influenced by both. George’s very being is a culmination of culture, service, friendship, and not giving a fuck. A sort of combination between Mother Theresa of Calcutta and Satan himself. A spunky boy born of noble New England Natives, whose names will be withheld from this documentation to protect the very nature of their nourishment. You see, they were good parents, Mr. and Mrs. Perham; I should know I have known them for quite some time now-- close to 5,000 years. But this is not a profile of my existence, God no, only a fool would read such swill. Back to our protagonist. Somewhere beyond the reaches of common man survives a type of fellow who is not afraid to rustle the masses perceptions of wit and charm, or lack thereof. The lackluster everyday man contains not the backbone to defecate in a woman’s soup bowl and proceed to inform her to go (insert obscenity here) herself with a rusty garden tool used for tilling. Trite and uninteresting, everyday man fails at life due to an overzealous obsession with monetary gains and stock portfolios in order to make his cock look bigger, or to give the impression of having a cock altogether. Thank Jesus Christ our noble George J. Perham II is not that common man. Whereas we walk the earth searching for food and shelter, George J. Perham II lounges like an ancient Babylonian Demigod waiting for whores and boys alike to adorn him with fresh fruit and smoked mutton inside of his temple of righteousness. We may only hope that future may be graced with the pleasure of his posterity. He likes to tattoo people too. contributed by long time friend Mario Petruccelli