Above my grandfather’s bed hangs a picture of his parents taken in Italy just before they came to America. My great-grandfather is wearing his cavalry uniform and my great-grandmother stands beside him. She’s a large woman. Not round—square. No, cubed. Four feet by four feet by four feet. On Christmas Eve, my grandfather and his eight siblings would wrestle for her stockings because they figured Santa had an obligation to just keep filling until the thing was topped off, no matter how deep.

I want to write a book that will make a lot of people very angry. I call it Harry Goes to Disneyland. It will start with the protagonist, Harry, on an airplane, a baby behind him screaming. Then he will arrive at his destination: Disneyland! Only Disneyland is closed. The airplane will have lost his luggage, and the hotel his reservation. From there, things will go downhill. Harry will be forced to stay with his ex-wife’s parents, who will constantly ask him why a grown man wants to go to Disneyland by himself. (Their voices will be nasal, and I will write their speech in dialect.) Finally, on Harry’s last day in town, Disneyland will re-open. Harry will spend hours looking for a parking spot, and someone will hit his rental car. After completing two hours of paperwork, he will spend the rest of the day waiting in lines. Although he will get to go on a couple of rides, they will be incredibly disappointing. The novel will end with Harry back on a plane, another baby screaming. I am certain that this novel will sell millions.

I am a black American man who rides a scooter. Neighbors shout “Euro-Negro!” as I cruise through the hood on this un-American vehicle wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of cloned lamb’s wool available only from a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. Passing motorists laugh as I lean forward on the fragile machine and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Worst of all, so-called friends mock my boasts of spending four dollars a week on gas with a simple but biting comeback, “You can’t put a price on your manhood.” But before you judge, let me tell you why I ride a scooter.

Picture this: You’re at a party. Everyone around you is talking about how lame the party is, saying they would rather be anywhere but there. Suddenly, without warning, you stand up and perform an amazing magic trick, and nobody can believe their eyes!

Could you imagine getting that kind of recognition? Having the power to, at any time, swoop in and steal the entire show? Well, you’d better start imagining it, because today I’m going to reveal my most amazing, show-stealing and “Oh-so astonishing!” magic tricks. FOR FREE!!!

Amidst the glut of über-chic boutique eateries crowding the labyrinthine streets of Manchester’s resurgent North-West district nestles the new venture of renowned gastronaut Harley Figgs-Baumgartner. In keeping with its so-trendy-it-hurts postcode, the restaurant plies its trade under the near-unpronounceable moniker of Xtcokpøt, and spreads it tables over seventeen floors in a tall cylindrical building, converted from an industrial chimney.