I know they’re talking about me. It happens to every public figure eventually. I, however, am not like every other public figure.
It’s understandable that you’re all bursting at the seams with questions you dare not ask about me and my personal life, especially given the strange anecdotes and conspiracy theories surrounding me. I don’t mind giving you that kind of access. There’s no hiding here. I’ll answer pretty much any question you hurl my way. While I am quickly becoming your favorite writer, I certainly don’t want to hide behind my rock-solid literary reputation. Salinger, I am not, and in more ways than two.
In fact, a lot of you newer fans may not know that I, Jeffery X Martin, am a domestic goddess. Can it be? you think. Can someone so manly, so John Milius-esque, around whom such legendary tales have arisen have a side that longs for hearth and home?
I have heard the stories. I have been regaled with stories of how I singlehandedly led a lost safari through the desert, allowing the stragglers whom I rescued to live by filtering my sweat and urine for them to drink.
Rumors have reached my ears about my secret work in Myanmar, smuggling Burmese children across the borders before they were impressed into service by vicious warlords and madmen.
I know what they say about me in the boardrooms, behind heavy oaken doors in their looming castles of glass and iron; how Bruce Dickinson, lead singer of Iron Maiden and licensed airline pilot, and I helped Richard Branson fake his own death so he could continue his work in stem-cell genetics without the interference of rogue government groups who sought to use his research to resurrect the Third Reich.
I understand the power of history. I am fully aware of the kind of fear I engender, the respect I command when I enter a room and the fawning and kowtowing of women when I simply extend my hand.
Women want to be with me. Men want to be in me. Men want to be in the women who want to be with me, preferably with me in them, and in me, also. That’s a kind of knot-tying best left to professionals.
These stories, ridiculous and absurd at first glance, make a strange kind of sense upon further inspection. Are they true? Well, Loyal Fanbase, I believe firmly in the power of belief. I can honestly say those stories are as true as you want them to be.
While the so-called experts babble about the nature of Truth as a concept and what constitutes Right and Wrong, I can honestly say to you I make a mean-ass omelet.
You know what the trick is? Don’t add water to the eggs. It thins them out too much; you’ll never get a good flip. If you must use milk, don’t overdo it. Seriously, you only need a splash. Less than a splash, even.
What you should really use is a teaspoon of sour cream. Whip together two or three eggs with that sour cream, and you’ve got the basic building blocks for a perfect omelet.
You know what else is nice? Put a little bit of cinnamon in your vacuum cleaner. It makes the whole house smell like the food court at the mall.
Coffee filters are great to clean glass with. They don’t leave any kind of lint behind. They’re also cheaper than any kind of pre-moistened wipe! And it’s all about saving money, isn’t it, girls?
I may be crafting the stories that give an entire generation nightmares. They may be hailing me in some circles as the new voice of terror. But inside, past all the rumors and hype, I’m just a guy who works from home and likes to take care of his family.
Okay. The story about me shooting my way through a door to enter a burning building so I could rescue cardboard boxes filled with baby kittens, puppies, lambs and babies is totally true. The babies were already blind and they did suffer burns, but Bruce Dickinson and I donated some of our ass skin for the grafting process. One of the babies did regain her sight after someone read a couple of my movie reviews out loud to her. They’ll be fine.