On the bleakest, most desolate day in the history of the world, Zeus, taking the form of a black bull, descended from the Heavens in a fit of passion.
At precisely this same moment, hidden deep within the Earth’s most verdant tropical rainforest, mankind’s most beautiful creation ascended from nature’s most awe-inspiring wonder: a translucent hot spring pool with shimmering sapphire sand, encircled by a ring of angel tear waterfalls and heated by the scorching fires of Hades.
Overcome by the woman’s lush lips, ample bosom, and untamed bush, Zeus charged with abandon and made his will known upon her.
This voluptuous jewel, hitherto as pure as the angels tears that she had just bathed in, scratched, bit, and clawed in a fit of protest. But upon realizing that she was being deflowered by the God of Gods, she relented to His will. Were any mortals to have served witness, they may have deemed this to be quite peculiar given the fact that she was being bestialitized by a raging bull.
Six to eight minutes later, His will-knowing finished and His seed sown, Zeus, in the form of a winged lion, spirited away his radiant treasure to Mt. Thera, a volcano so powerful and violent that even the Gods could not control it, where he flung the impregnated woman into the boiling sea of lava therein.
And on the most auspicious, most glorious day in the history of the world, Zeus returned to the Heavens in a fix of refractory. Then He looked back upon what He had done, and He saw that it was very good.
Six to eight months later, Mt. Thera announced the birth of the King of Kings with an epic eruption, laying waste to continents and civilizations alike, and launching the baby John Box into the outer layer of the Earth’s atmosphere where he tore off his burning umbilical cord and fired it into the Heavens. To this day it is visible when dark, the tip known as Polaris.
Lily white unicorns frolicked on a triple rainbow while fluffy minikin bears celebrated with honey dew schnapps before their rejoicing devolved into random bits of fisticuffs and looting.
With great jubilance and appetite, Eagle-eyed eagles swooped down upon the desert and devoured streaks of Caspian tigers, rendering them extinct.
Remoras turned on nurse sharks, calling them hurtful names, some of them sexist; cobras embraced mongooses, or perhaps mongeese, but they did not consummate the deal figuring it would be in poor taste given the occasion; and little kids fired off M80s in porta-potties losing the odd finger here and there.
The achievements of John Box during his youth were many and varied. If every one of them were written down, the whole world would not have enough room for the all books that would be written nor all the servers that would be needed to store the feats digitally. Seriously. I don’t care how tiny transistors get, it’s a fact. Anyhoo, below are some highlights.
Box grew up a poor black child with unique rhythm, a golden-haired wunderkind owning jets, yachts, and people, and above all, a beacon of hope, a ray of sunshine, and a ray of death, or death ray.
Adored by everyone and despised by many, he had all the friends in the world and none.
At the age of 8-months, as a way to cope with boredom, restrictions in mobility, and unsatisfactory contemporaries, he invented beer.
At the age of 2, he was approached by a beady-eyed serpent urging him to eat the Apple of Knowledge. Box assented. It was delicious and he became even smarter than he already was, soon thereafter crushing the Watson Supercomputer at Jeopardy. In return, Box offered the serpent the Dead Rat of Enlightenment. The serpent accepted only to come down with an intestine-butchering case of salmonella. It was a really shitty week for him.
At the age of 3, handicapped by a rope tethered to pack of lifeless cheetahs, he decimated an adult male cheetah in a 40-yard dash.
At the age of 4, using nothing but rainwater from the Heavens, soil from the earth, and necromancy (which, incidentally, he finally learned at the age of 30 had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with having sex with corpses), he brought to life a siege of chaste-white cranes. Shortly thereafter, one of them nipped a biscuit from his hand as he was bringing it to his mouth and in retaliation he had the whole lot of them spontaneously combust.
At the age of 5, he drilled his first female, a hard-drinking 33-year-old named Shateeka who had a penchant for clean-chested demi-gods smelling of brandy. Incidentally, the young John Box was the only clean-chested demi-god smelling of brandy that Shateeka had ever met. So she may have just been a slut with a penchant for excuses.
At the age of 6, with the world facing a gold shortage, he forged platinum, selling off half the world’s supply to burgeoning hip-hop artists and maintaining the other half for himself.
On his 7th birthday, during a primitive piñata celebration where an elder male would hold the piñata in front of the participants via string and stick as opposed to tying the piñata to a tree as they do in modern times, John Box, blindfolded and hungry for candy and adulation, took a herculean swing at the piñata only to make herculean contact with the elder’s groin. The multitudes in attendance erupted in laughter.
At the age of 8, in that peculiar period known as adolescence, while observing the status of his armpit hair in the still water of a serene pond, he attracted the attention of another youth, the one known as Narcissus, who after gazing longingly at Box, turned back to his own reflection with daggers in his eyes and hocked a thick, half-phlegm half-blood loogie thereupon. Box, who had also seen young Narcissus’ reflection, vomited in his mouth before taking leave of the wretched, tuberculosis-looking boy. The remainder of Box’ 8th year was mainly spent telling the sycophantic gonorrhea-faced stalker to fuck off.
At the age of 9, when his village was attacked by a hideous hag with writhing, venomous snakes for hair, cottage-cheese thighs, and a never-ending stream of nagging complaints spewing from her lipless mouth, he fearlessly approached the beast, sliced the head off of each individual serpent, drained the thighs of its cottage cheese blubber, and crammed the petrified phallus of a fallen Cyclops down the monster’s throat. The villagers rejoiced as the hideous but quietly sated creature slumped off.
At the age of 10, he cried for 68 straight days and 68 straight nights, lamenting the fact that he could never be brave. For to be brave, you must be scared.
At the age of 11, he destroyed Hitler in a staring contest.
At the age of 12, he pinpointed pi down to the very last digit. Surprisingly, this did not get him any pussy. Not that he needed any more pussy. He was already getting the most pussy in the world.
At the age of 13, he roundhouse-kicked Siddharta Gautama in the spine partially for deserting his wife and child, but more partially for being a pretentious douche.
At the age of 14, he listened to a budding female acquaintance whine about how she didn’t get along with her parents, how boys are jerks, and how she didn’t like her eyebrows etc. for an hour and a half without, I repeat without, ripping out her larynx, spitting on it, and launching it into the Sun.
At the age of 15, while on a date at the movies, Shateeka fretfully pointed out that the theater did not have any Coke Zero. Nevertheless, Box told the concession stand dude to fill two jumbo cups to the brim with Diet Coke. When Shateeka took a sip on the way to her seat, she was shocked and delighted to discover she was drinking Coke Zero. For Box had turned Diet Coke into Coke Zero.
At the age of 16, he came upon a couple of boys who were ridiculing a leper whose arm had fallen off. Incensed, Box cured the leper, reaffixed the fallen arm to its socket, and afflicted the boys with leprosy. Within 6-8 seconds the newly lepered kids were horrified to find that an arm of their own had fallen limp to the ground. Laughing hysterically, Box and the former leper beat the kids to death with their own limbs. Of particular amusement was the way the little punks tried to defend themselves with just one arm. Douches.
At the age of 17, he fucked 18 girls in a row.
At the age of 18, he invented soccer as a joke to make fun of poor kids.
In 1998, Box began his literary endeavors by spray-painting the word “vagina” on a middle school dumpster.
Then there was some stuff.
Then, in 2006, he was named Time’s Person of the Year. And you can look that shit up because it's a fact among facts.
Following that achievement, he released in 2007 his groundbreaking work, Memoirs of a Douchebag; Huge in Japan, which became a finalist for the inaugural Literary Agents, Publishers, and Book Critics Can Eat a Log of Shit Award.
And from there, the legend has continued to grow like an atomic mushroom cloud of cool, handsome, and devastation.
p.s. John Box has never in his life defecated.
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