JFK

     “Breaking News!  Mr. President has been shot.  He’s alive for the moment, but eyewitness reports of the wounds reveal that they are bound to be fatal.  This is a testament to you, JFK, a man who changed the world.

     You were born in a flaming chariot in the back-woods of West Virginia.  At the age of seven weeks you delivered a persuasive speech to your parents asking for better living conditions.  You moved out of that hot ride and into a cool villa in California.  California, the worst time in your life.

     During your time in California, the only celebrity you saw in fourteen years was the man in the mirror.  And Michael Jackson, but, you usually don’t count him… In school you were bullied for being just plain too handsome.  Those California girls were intimidated.  While there, your parents hit big as gold miners.  Unfortunately, the San Francisco 49ers didn’t do so well.  Your father ended up bankrupt after betting his profits on a lost cause.  After that, your family shifted into the shadows.  You joined a boxing club and taught the Italian Stallion a thing or two.  With a swift right hook you changed his last name.  Then you moved again, to Texas.

     In Texas you put a few pieces of bread in the toaster, and voila, Texas toast.  It soon became a national craze.  After that, you single-handedly reenacted the Battle of the Alamo dressed as Davy Crockett, and thus his legend was born.  You would later play the greatest game of dodgeball seen on Earth, against the Lone Ranger. 
     At the age of sixteen, you decided to attend college.  Brigham Young University was your choice, as a joke to your personal tutor the Pope.  There you married half a dozen women, cheated on them with Marilyn Monroe, put their names in a hat and drew one, divorced everyone else, and decided to run for President.

     When being sworn in as President, you criticized the Chief Justice for his foul language.  During your reign, I mean presidency, you became a savior for minorities, because you felt a common bond with them as no other person could possibly be in the same category of sheer awesomeness as you.  On November 22, 1963, you rode in a parade in your old home of Texas, where you were ironically hit by two fragments of misfired Cuban missiles. 

     So, here we are today, the Day Fitzgerald Died.”