That’s easy. Martin Shkreli. It’s not even close. Yeah, I’ve done a little research and conducted a few interviews, but ole Marty now, that man’s got me snowed. And now I don’t know whether to shit peach seeds or watch all the entertainment on YouTube, reason being, I misspelled the word “us” in the first round of the 2nd-grade spelling bee, “U.S.S. ussssssss,” I said.
See, it ain’t no stretch for me to sound stupid, cause I don’t have to use my imagination. Shoot. My breath smells like cow shit ALL the time. And if I’m honest, I think that’s the only thing I know for sure [**Shkreli got it wrong in his videos**](https://youtu.be/NF32Fuf16Vs?si=2CDjNWjQElwiw2cs) (See minute 5:00), cause I promise, I sound way stupider than the way Shkreli made me sound.
Truth is, the reason people call me “Tweedle” is because I went out bowfishing in my underwear. And when that big alligator gar went to swimming and disappearing beneath all them lily pads I was standing betwixt, you see, I had that bow drawed back all the way and couldn’t hold it no longer once that gar disappeared on me, so I thought it would be a good idea to let the arrow back down to give myself a break.
And…oh my stars was that ever a mistake, because when I did, the cam of that compound bow was sitting right on my testicals. And soon as it went to spinning, it took winkle and sprinkle with it, but didn’t do no harm to dinkle. Still, I was in a world of pain with my manhood caught all up in that compound bow, but now with the drawstring let down and my unspeakables wrapped three times around that big ole wheel, I couldn’t no nothing. Not a damn thing. Accept yell! So Humpy, I won’t tell you how he got his name, but he come up behind me like he was hunching me from the rear, and so I raised up my arm and Humpy reached under my armpit and pulled the bow back until all my goodies unrolled the same way they went in. That experience hurt so bad, that I remember all of it, so when I told the whole tale at work one day, all my coworkers come up with the nickname Tweedle, then give me a poop-brown hard hat to go with it cause they said I was shit for brains.
And the funny thing is, is when I was institutionalized in the nuthouse, I told that story on the 4th Floor of the psychiatric ward cause I thought I knowed the cure for mental illness. And when I got done, people stopped crying and was laughing so hard that all us crazies partied in there for four days, telling stories and being kind to one another, because that was the shit that never happened to a lunatic once they got on the outside.
Yep. That’s the world we live in. People sure ain’t nice on the outside.
That’s why I stay in the mountains most of the time. Ain’t gotta try and sound smart like I do on the internet. Yeah, in the mountains, I can be as stupid as I want looking for mushrooms and such. Chicken of the woods is good.
Bears in them slick suits and hoodies better be scared of me. Cus I smart. I important. I read books about economix and smelling salts and Wall Street...even though I ain’t never been on no airplane, but I seen them in the movies. Like *Con Air*, where the convicts get out of prison and start doing the same shit they was doing before they got themselves locked inside the pokie in the first place. Yeah, done seen that movie before.
Bears ain’t got no sense. But what do I know. I’m just a lunatic that nearly castrated himself with a compound bow.
Beware of hazardous pinch points,
Tweedle