John Goode is fifty years old and was found in his floating crib by a strange man… wait, no that’s Baby Yoda. I am a cat that gets constantly screamed at by a blond woman while I’m trying to eat… wait, no, not me. I am inevitable, nope. I am Iron Man? More no. I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way? I can’t pull that dress off. Okay, I am and shall always be your friend. Sigh, I think I stole that from somewhere. Let me try again. WHEN I WAS A YOUNG WARTHOG! Too much? I agree. Okay, how about a little Fosse, Fosse, Fossee, a little Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Twyla, Twyla, Twyla and then some Michael Kidd, Michael… I lost you, huh? Well whoever he is, I can assure you he isn’t a black cat that wears glasses. Okay, how about this?
He is this guy who lives in this place and writes stuff he hopes you read.
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