Who am I? Shall I tell you the sordidness of my existence like "David Copperfield"? "To begin my life at the beginning of my life, I record that I was born..." I say let's move beyond this point some 30 odd years and tell you, "Le Vie Vrai du David" or as I affectionately refer to as, "Yes, it's big, Yes, it's powerful and No, you can't touch it." So there I was minding my own business, playing a losing game of solitaire, when she walked in. Her stoic face said 'No." Her lascivious legs said "Yes." Her five inch stilettos coupled with a mangled, blood stained katana said, "Maybe." Immediately overwhelmed with a one-two combo punch of sexual awakening and verbal diarrhea, I blurted out, "Hi! Can I help you breasts?" Of course, in my mind, I said," Bonjour ma petit chou. You need my help. N'est pas?" In a thick Russian accent, she informed me that I was being hunted. Upon recovering from the fetal position, wiping the crocodile tears from my cheeks, and the screams for my mommy, I decided she must be pulling my leg. She told me that I was in danger. Thirty minutes later and an underwear change I told her, "Danger is my middle name." I told her it was also my first and last. She said an evil consortium of assassin circus clowns must eliminate a dangerous threat; specifically a Danger D. Danger threat. I told her this isn't possible. "Look you smoking hot, sexy, enigmatic lady with amazing legs and a terrifying accent to boot, this cannot be! Danger D. Danger is my nom de plume." She said that they are, in fact, hunting some idiot who calls himself that said name. I was screwed, to say the least; especially since I am coulrophobic. Suddenly, the lights in the building went out. The backup generators went on. She grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me in close. She started to feel my body up and down. I said, "Slow down, my little KGB love bird, let’s not use up your Danger D. Danger 'love-slave' card right away." She reached her hand into my pocket and pulled out a Starbucks gift card. She threw it to the side and informed me that it was, in fact, a homing beacon for the assassin circus clowns and that they followed me here to this place. After the second change of my shorts, I said, "Let's kill 'em all!" or "I want my mommy!" It was one of those two. The next thing I know smoke grenades were dropping in through the vents which began smoking up the joint. That's when it happenned; my greatest fear realized (a fear with a probability of .0000001% chance of happening). The clowns and their painted smiles and red squeaky noses came flying in, ninja-style, through the windows and ventilation shafts. Amazingly a few were dwarf clown assassins, which is how they fit through the vents. Anyway, my Slavic vixen pulled out her katana and screamed like a banshee from hell. She sliced and slashed her way through numerous clowns. Their pure evil mixed with the horrific make-up and water squirting flowers was too much for her to handle alone. I didn't know what to do. They charged at me. I grabbed my only available weapon. My laptop. Splat! One down. Honk! Another, right in the schnozzle! There were too many and my laptop couldn't take it. I kept swinging but the blood mixing with painted grin was more than I could stomach and they kept coming at me like a hive after a nosey bear. Everything went black. Actually, everything went rose, then yellow, then cyan, then orange and then black. I woke up in a hospital, three days later, covered in clown make-up and nursing a stellar migraine. My Moscow Maiden was nowhere to be seen. One rumor is she saved my life. Actually that is the only rumor. Whatever the truth is, however, I think she saved us all. We all owe her a debt of gratitude. If not for her valour we could be a planet of slaves to a bunch of psycho-ninja-circus clowns. So, what is the moral to this story of bravery and sacrifice, you ask? Always trust a Russian femme fatale with a blood drenched sword and never ever fight an army of ninja-like clowns with a laptop. It does diddly squat to the clowns and just ruins your computer, making it impossible to fill out this retarded "about me" essay.

We whip off in my space jet. The love we feel for each is other is only matched by our unbridled passion for destroying the planet Earth.
We set our Photon 3x Laser Planet Blaster on "Xplode." WE stop to hesitate a moment and realize that our plan has succeeded. She kisses me
on the cheek as I maniacally laugh at the utter doom we are about to dispense on the blue planet filled with single minded automaton monkies.
I turn my head toward hers and we embrace as she wraps her hand around mine which is holding onto the detonator.
We squeeze it together and the world as we know it,
is gone. Joyous in our crazed destruction of said planet, we make love.......evil love.