When I was in Kindergarten, I was (and still am) a huge baseball fan. I loved the Atlanta Braves. They were actually good in the early eighties. Then they sucked for like half a decade. Then they won 14 straight divisional titles. But I digress.
We had a talent show. And I was dressed up as Dale Murphy (who has been egregiously left out of the hall of fame), complete with bat and batting helmet. I took the stage and sang “Take me out to the ballgame.”
I was utterly enthralling. All eyes were on me. I am a natural performer, spotlight-stealer, and attention hog (seriously ask anyone who knows me).
My performance culminated in me swinging the bat as I sang “1… 2… 3… Strikes you’re out at the old ballgame!”
On my third swing I ironically connected. It was with the mic stand, mind you. I sent it, along with the microphone, hurtling into the audience. Boys and girls in the front row scrambled for their lives as metal, chords, and assorted audio equipment rained down upon them.
The consummate professional, I finished my song. Ignoring the masterful killing stroke, I bowed, and exited stage left.
The audience cheered. Or screamed in terror. But probably laughed their K-6 hineys off.
Whatever. I was a star.
A StarChild.
Luckily there was no counter-eugenics program running in the late seventies that would have terminated my existence before I had a chance to be born.
The Dystopian Nation of City-State 