I’m getting immensely stiff in my designer leather pants just thinking about how much I rock, and women walking by are distracted by what they see, and stumble over themselves and drop thick sheaves of paper. My cock pokes through my pants like a meaty serpent, a tempter in Eden, an idea of perfection in meaty manly penile form.

I rock. I roccccccck. I would write songs about how great I am, but everyone would buy these songs from me – at any price I named – and the economy would crumble in a day, since I would have all of the money, and everybody else would have none. Is this a proper punishment for humanity, simply for acknowledging the many splendorous and varied ways in which I rock? My guitar sits in a corner and is silent. I will not write songs about myself. I cannot. I love this adoring world too much. It has such great taste in men.

For those about to rock, don’t bother. I’ve beaten you to it, and I’ve got everything under control. Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime, and you can take the night shift or something. But I doubt it. Because kicking ass and being insanely great is a fulltime job, and it’s a job I take very seriously. They’ll pay me the overtime if I ask for it. Look at me. Look at this. Look at the seams in my leather pants – do you see how strained they are, attempting to contain the profoundly heavy mass of beef that is my cock? This cock could move mountains. It slices through pussies like a boat through the ocean, and you will anger it if you continue to stare.

When people are not at a loss for words, they haltingly ask me how I managed to get every hair in place on my perfect head, how the swoops and gentle crevices of my hair were formed. “Adonis,” they whisper, before their heads explode like they had heard the very voice of God in moisturized hair form. Do I spend entire days in the care of hair technicians, they ask. Are thin men with unpronounceable names brought from the furthest reaches of the globe to tame my hair, as one would a rabid stallion? Never do they believe that my hair, as the great coral reef, is composed by Nature alone. The unhappy deaths of my ancestors were worthy deaths, for their genetic material was passed on, generation to generation, refined and edited, until the recipe for the perfect head of sexy passion-hair was crafted by Nature herself and set atop my golden pate. Luckily, I am worthy of the gift. I never comb my hair. My hair would be insulted by combs.

My pubic hair is equally lustrous, I assure you.

But back to my rocking. I cannot write a novel, ever. If I were to set pen to paper, I would kill literature entirely, and I am no murderer, no. For if the quest of all literature is to seek out and define the human condition, then I would render this quest unnecessary by writing it succinctly: praise my chiseled ass. And scholars the world over would say: “of course!” and feel very very stupid. I do not want this on my conscience.

I will not cure cancer. I refuse. Yes, I could, in a second. The answer lies in common penicillin, lemon juice, zinc, and another ingredient that I will not tell you ever. For any philosopher can tell you that evil is necessary if we want to appreciate the good. One dies with the other. And I ask you, does not a legion of cancer-ridden people counterbalance my super-duper greatness perfectly? Do not lie and say otherwise.

I rock so much. So very very much. And my rocking makes me weary. I will stop writing now – though I could write so much more on my rocking – and I will go and have intercourse with several anonymous European models in many different and altogether shocking orifices. It would make you blush. But you would forgive me.

Because I rock.