Author’s Note: Because of some buttinsky “journalists” and their fickle demands for “truth”— from irrelevant douche bags, not the President; calm down — the Author, who is a Grade-A Genius, is forced to include the following Note: the following memoir is one hundred percent bullshit. I’m rich. – Rebecca Schuman, Best-Selling Authoress
My name is Rebecca Schuman. I am a Vixen and a Heartbreaker. The word “Schuman” has appeared five times in the preceding two paragraphs (six if you count the one in this sentence), and this means that I am important and pained.
I spent most of my twenties (otherwise known as “the last two years”) as a bad, bad person. Therefore, it follows that I am a multizillionaire, a super-hot sorority girl, a quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, and a future nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court (Ruth Bader Ginsburg will die in 2031; I will be nominated due to my harrowing ability to overcome my troubled past). I will definitely get confirmed, in case you are wondering, because my husband bursts into tears at the least provocation — not just when Ted Kennedy picks on me for being a white supremacist and simultaneously an immigrant, but because I enjoy beating him while I watch Dr. Phil, and he is therefore often quite jumpy... or, as cool writers would describe it, Jumpy. It is not my fault he can’t weather a punch, and we all know that “concussions” are for queers; I once flew from Jakarta to Mumbai with 18 simultaneous concussions, subsisting only on vomit casserole and motor oil — and when I say “flew” I don’t mean “sat there like some pussed-out Civilian,” I mean flew the plane myself.
Because I know how to fly airplanes; that is one of the many admirable qualities that makes me so attractive to men such as film and television star James Franco, who was my extremely subservient gentleman lover until I had to take out a restraining order against him. “I pretend to fly airplanes in the movies,” he used to say, “but you fly them for real. You’re amazing, Rebecca Schuman, and I, James Franco, love you.” Then he’d sketch me in the nude — I mean, he was nude, I was wearing a maribou jumpsuit. I finally had to dump him for alternative comedy star Eugene Mirman, who has much fewer dollars than James Franco, but much larger breasts. Our lovers’ discourses were conducted entirely in Russian. It was very romantic. They went a lot like this: где спутник? я могуча писательница!! Such sweet nothings espoused the very essence of my Soul in dense foreign prose way too complicated for you to understand. Even Eugene Mirman can’t really understand it, and that is why I had to dump him for a torrid affair with the entire casts of Final Destination and Final Destination 2 (but not Final Destination 3 — they’re a bunch of hacks), and an eventual marriage to aging Britpop icon Richard Ashcroft, who can’t take a punch because he is too busy gazing at his own cheekbones.
Yes, I have had a passionate and exciting love life, full of intrigue and harrowing behavior and several relapses with James Franco, who enjoys being shirtless in private life even more than he does in the movies. He and similarly-handsome actor Cillian Murphy had a fistfight over me just last week, and my current husband Richard Ashcroft had to pacify them with a piercing rendition of the old Verve hit ‘History,’ which he wrote about me. Don’t believe anything you hear from anyone else, such as that I am pushing “thirty,” or that I just spent an entire weekend eating carrot cake directly from a trough. Which, even if I did, would be totally erotic and lovely. I am a genius, or as Eugene Mirman would say in Russian, я идиот. If that’s not the total Truth, I don’t know what is. Now bring on Ted Kennedy.