I was born in a laundry basket at a 24 hour Washomatic in Cleveland to immigrant parents from Quebec. My father was Beegmout Bass, and my mother was Daubelle Bass (after marriage, maiden name Pennetreceonne.) We barely escaped the horrific oppression, free medicine, clean forests, and suspiciously nice people just in time to avoid the debacle of legalized devil’s weed. After living in the back closet of the Washomatic for 3 years, it was a blessing in the skin of a wolf when my mother and father flubbed their murder/suicide pact by forgetting to include me in the plans. Or maybe they each thought the other would do it, but time ran out more quickly than they’d anticipated. I remember seeing my father shrug his shoulders before slumping over dead, as my mother’s weakened voice gasped a frustrated “As always, either too cheap or too forgetful to buy what I sent you to the market for, you fool! I said to get the brand name Cyanide since they’re the only one that offers Time-Release version!. And what were you planning on spending the 67¢ on anyw—-” And that vision of them arguing and ignoring me even in death is the last memory I have of my parents. At least I shall forever remember them accurately, as they were in daily life. This, also, is my excuse for always wearing dirty, stinky clothes. The smell of Tide, All, or ironically Cheer, causes me to go on a violent berserker freakout. I enjoy racquetball and card games, as well.