Angie Wedekind
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Hi, Hello, and Welcome. My name is Angeline Elizabeth “A-Town” Wedekind, and this is my autobiography. Currently, I reside in Los Angeles, California on the west coast of the United States of America. I work making what is known as “television” to the commoners and sometimes referred to as “the Jew in the Living Room That Tells Us What To Think” by many racists and bigots throughout America. Though my life today is filled with lavish “money parties” (where we throw money at each other and laugh,) wining and dining with celebrities (Kenny Rogers, anyone?), and wild games of backgammon, it has not been an easy journey here.
I was born in the summer of 1982, on a day where no breeze blew and the heat was beyond sweltering. My father David, a cobbler, was at his shop cobbling Mayor Butsworth’s shoes as he always did on Tuesdays, when my mother Gail rang him on the telephone machine to ask if he would like to picnic in Grants Point Park for lunch, as she had just picked up some fresh sausages that very morning from Mr. Horshvenhalt, the town butcher, who made wonderful sausages that all the town enjoyed. He would rise well before dawn carefully de-boning the meat, (often pork shoulder taken from one of his bountiful stock,) and then place it into his favored grinder he called “Ol’ Gerty.” His sausages contained an ample amount of spice, but not overpowering which was remarkable. Most days, they were an 85/15 Grind (meat to fat,) however that morning he had decided to go for a special 95/5 Grind, and used sheep’s casings instead of the usual hog’s as they are more tender, and allow for better moisture retention. Nine hours after my mother bought the fresh sausages from Mr. Hosrshvenhalt, who sold them to her at special rate on account of “the big baby inside ye,” I was born, weighing in at 6.5 .lbs, a tiny babe that many said had the “Mark of the Beast” that later was revealed to be just a bit of a placenta that had yet to be wiped off. Gross.
On a side note, today I am a vegetarian, enjoying a strict diet of roots and grasses with the occasional berry or two.
My childhood was one filled with hopscotch, imaginary friends and lollipops. Soon, I had a sister, Sarah Jean, and then, later, a brother, David Blaine. The three of us laughed and frolicked all the livelong day as all kids do, playing house, Charlies’ Angels (David was Bosley), and having the occasional Mushroom War. Hard times soon came, as our father lost his Cobbling shop due to the arrival of a new chain of Cobblers, Cobblebee’s, offering discounted cobbling with complimentary blooming onions. Even though Cobblebee’s put an absurd amount of horseradish into their dipping sauce, the town no longer went to my father for their cobbling needs. Before long, we were foraging for food in Yorrick’s Forest, and it was during this time I developed my taste for roots, grasses and occasional berries. But Cobbling was then once again thrust into our lives, this time however with my mother at the forefront. Her Boysenberry Cobblers caught on and soon were the town delicacy. Mayor Butsworth would even stop by on Tuesdays and have his shoes cobbled whilst he ate my mothers famed cobbler.
With our family on sound financial ground, I was off to college, attending the University of Georgia, majoring in Telecommunications with a minor in, of course, Cobbling (shoes, not pies.) During my time there, I bounced from boy to boy, always looking for my soul mate, someone to share my life with, and always finding the boys I chose lacking in the qualities I look for (6’0, lean 170 lbs., square jaw, steely blue eyes, rippling muscles, dark hair, sense of humor, smart, Democrat, ethnicity not important.) Even Mr. Horshvenhalt’s youngest son Strogenoff, came up short (in more ways than one.) For now, I guess, this toolboat Andrew Jedlicka will have to do. He thinks he’s SO funny, ugh.
After graduating, I moved to New York to establish myself as an artist and seek out my fortune. Facing starvation, I then moved to L.A. and lost my soul to Hollywood, but the money is amazing. As I dictate this, an illegal foreign boy is rubbing my feet while another feeds me grapes, and a third who I call “Simon” types it all up.
That’s it for me! see you next time,
Love,
A-Town.
