My father had a small estate in Westchester: I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emerson College in Boston at eighteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied myself close to my studies and, admittedly, to my bong; but the charge of maintaining me, although I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I felt the compulsion to drop out, and later accepted an apprenticeship at a monthly publication of some esteem: there I sorted post two years and seven months, knowing it would be useful in flirting with Amanda Peet, editor of the publication.

The last of these attempts at courtship not proving very fortunate, I grew weary of my life, and intended to assume the artifice of an experienced writer. I copied text from a Mexican travel site, and from thence pasted it to Word, hoping to get business among the lady; and studied ceaselessly the writers whose influence on me would require the appropriate citation to maintain my façade.

At long last, after three years expectation that she might bone me, I accepted an advantageous offer from Ms. Peet. She had heard, from a source of the most distinguished reputation, that a guy knew the secret to the Bermuda Triangle, and thought a freelance investigation of its mysterious and fatal phenomena would suit my fledgling journalistic expertise. I set sail from Key West, May 4, 2010, and my voyage was at first very prosperous.

It would not be proper, for some reasons, to trouble the reader with the particulars of my adventures in those seas; let it suffice to inform him, that in my passage from thence to the Bermuda Triangle, I was driven by a violent storm to the north-west of Mexico’s Gulf. For my own part, I flailed my arms and screamed wildly, but when I was almost gone, and able to struggle no longer, I found myself engulfed in black, and overcome with the dreadful certainty of the pending climax of my voyage, and the untimely end to my illusory assignment. Yet when I awoke, it was daylight, and I attempted to rise, but was not able to stir: for, as I happened to lie on my back, I found my arms and legs were strongly fastened on each side to the ground; and my hair, which was shaggy and unkempt, tied down in the same manner. I likewise felt several slender ligatures across my body, from my sweaty pits to my ba-haalls. In a little time I felt something alive moving on my left leg, which advancing gently forward over my breast, came almost up to my chin; when, bending my eyes downwards as much as I could, I perceived it to be one of several computer-generated creatures not six inches high. I was in the utmost astonishment, and roared so loud, that they all ran back in a fright.

The reader will now be advised to consider the implications of this fortuitous augmentation; for in Manhattan, being relegated to the anonymity of the mail-room and involuntarily celibate, I felt overlooked and insignificant, quite to the contrary of my gregarious and ambitious nature, and the irony of my physical inversion was not lost on me; for after this initial encounter with the Lilliputians, I encountered an adventure as epic as my relative size and as entertaining as the fabled Museum Nights of great American folklore.

Indeed, upon my arrival in their kingdom, the emperor and empress held an unprecedented interest in my affairs, and my habit of improvisation proved an uncanny asset in my diminutive surroundings. I was delighted to find much of my culture alien to these creatures: they knew nothing of Yoda, nor the Millennium Falcon, nor even Manhattan, though they were quick, once given proper instruction in the requisite technology and stagecraft, to adopt the practice of rocking out. What’s more, I quickly assumed the tutelage of a lovesick Lilliputian named Segel, who had felt the inexorable pull of the princess’s vajajay; and despite my prior deficiencies in the intricacies of love (as my investigative assignment was still incomplete, I regretfully had yet to bang Amanda Peet), I advised the poor misfit on the most suitable methods of courtship.

Having on several occasions announced my reputation as a hero in my homeland’s star wars, I was soon called to defend Lilliput from its enemies from Blefuscu. Confident in my facility to defuse the quarrel with my irreverent quips and inherent likability, I waded out to the deepest point of the international waters, which barely reached my love-handles even at their darkest fathoms, to confront the enemy, who, upon seeing the monstrous ambassador, discharged several hundred cannon-balls, all of which bounced off my fortuitous flab and rebounded toward their own ships, thereby eradicating the enemy’s fleet and convincing me of my own immortality in this strange and endearing land.

At this recount of my further adventures in Lilliput, as well as my brief and equally bizarre habitation amongst the Brobdingnagians, the reader will no doubt soon find satisfaction. I only pause here to remind the reader, as such knowledge is necessary going forward, of the unparalleled delights of three-dimensional stereoscopy, a technological achievement I later imparted on some horse-lookin’ dudes, who agreed that it enhanced the cinematic experience for young and adult Yahoos alike.