Mark Arminio

So I was sitting down to write this bio when it struck me that if you are this far you already know more about me that my parents.  I was briefly raised in a stereotypical, middle class, suburban family of 2.5 children; one boy, one girl and one androgynous midget named Terri. 

After my parents left, I was raised by my nanny, an Iranian dwarf named Clause, who was a closet marionette and wrote anonymous songs for the band “Train.”  We were out one day on the prairie, remarking how the amber waves of grain looked, in the proper light, remarkably similar to a J. Edgar Hoover dancing with a unicorn, when he decided to teach me how to track animals by putting my ear to the ground.  Sadly, he was trampled to death by water buffalo in heat…

That’s when I met Cindy, a cute Italian girl with the melodic and erotic intonations of an angelic choir, the passion of thousand febrile burning suns, a scent that spun my head with delicious calenture, and stretch marks the size of my forearms.  She was tan, but top heavy.  We eventually broke up after I made one too many snide comments about her caffinated buxom. 

“Where do you get off?” she yelled at me.

“In my room, mostly,” I replied, “But I don’t see how that any of your business.”

After an epigrammatic stint with an addiction to grandiloquence as a peripatetic sesquipedalian, I found I had another addiction to shiny things.

I sought help for my multiple personality disorder.  I thought I had the right room, but as I glanced down realized I was in a meeting for manic depression.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I had stepped into an alternate dementia…

I ran screaming from the room and this led me to Don’t Tell Anna auditions.  At first I was as nervous as a Kennedy at an AA meeting, but eventually I settled into a quiet rhythm and found I was, well…its like…I could…maybe…um…no, but…you know…I can make stuff up good.

I’m going to go now.

Sincerely,
                        Mark Arminio