In 1950, I was born under the Brooklyn Bridge to a Black disciple of Marcus Garvey and a bald Jew of the Ashkenazi strain. My parents were simultaneously addicted to welfare money, fried chicken, and Talmud studies. My skin is not a creamy cappuchino or a choclatey swirl (like the prolific NBA dime-dropper Jason Kidd), but rather the color (and consistency) of pruney old grapes (which is also my grandmother’s nickname).

I was mistaken for a man in my twenties and drafted to fight in Vietnam. There I lost my left arm and my abilitee to spel. My story was adapted into the hit Amanda Bynes vehicle, “She’s the Man.”

Upon returning home, I came out as a lesbian and enrolled in The New School in New York City where I majored in Feminist Studies and Mushrooms (a “create-a-major” geared towards the understanding of fungi in Central Park).

In 1982, I published my first novel, “Fuck the Church: a Seminar on Sex in Pews Across America.” The publication of my sequel novel, “Screw a Jew in a Pew,” indirectly threw me in jail after it allegedly inspired a young Ukrainian immigrant to copulate with his girlfriend in the front row of the Vatican, causing immense shock for Pope Benedict XVI because he had never seen circumsized penis.

After emerging from prison, I moved into a Manhattan flat with my lover Janine, with whom I adopted a Chinese baby and named him Mister Sulu. Every Sunday night is cultural night in the house. We drink Jagermeister and look at Playboy pictorals of Pamela Anderson (she is Canadian).

I seek employment at Wesleyan University for the obvious reasons: I know a shitload about diversity, spacingmywords, spelung, being disabled (and Black and Jewish and gay), and helping a variety of post-pubescent fools to appreciate their academic experience more than their children will. If you don’t choose me to be the next Maria Cruz-Saco, then affirmative action will.

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