Ball, Hugo (1979-2032):

Inventor, poet, and accomplished saxophonist. Born to a poor cobbler and his two androgynous wives (an Earthling and a tentaclebot from the eighth dimension), Ball grew up an only child. With no sibling in his life Ball grew imaginary friends in his imagination to give him what he knew sibling gave each other; pain, humiliation, black eyes and dirt sandwiches. Needless-to-say, Ball's imaginary friends are the reason he became who he was, always drinking a quart of vodka for breakfast to "take the edge off" followed by shooting off thirty rounds of live ammunition into the ceiling and looking angrily at all the spots in his apartment where he believed they had installed the surveillance equipment and inadvertently caught some of the kinkiest shit ever uploaded to the web. We're talking geriatrics, livestock, feces, and a general disregard for human life. A tasteless man, steeped in controversy after abandoning his family to run free with the slime molds of New Zealand, whom he had always felt a strong attraction to, ever since his psychoanalyst had diagnosed him as a marine biologist. Needless-to-say, he was a bit perturbed by the hormonal changes that accompanied male pregnancy, and sought solace by occupying various suggestive positions in public places --not because he meant to offend anyone, but because protruding his groin was the only way to relieve the unbearable pain of pregnancy. Arnold puked his guts out every time he remembered the awful time he was pregnant, only stopping the endless stream of vomit to speak to the American public, yelling out the window of his bathroom, "My fellow citizens, I have given it much thought over the pass three hours since my last defecation and perhaps I ingest too much dairy."