American Face: The Unauthorized Biography of a Secret Identity

Hi everyone. Thanks for the 20 million views on the spider film. I cut Rambah. A lot of people said, where do you get your crazy ideas? Well I get them from this box. I keep all the stuff I can't show you. Some of it's so crazy it's actually evil. Like this supporter film I made it to the September 11th of the tax. No you're not going to see that one. It's too evil. I'm last. There is a story I could tell you first. Then it might make sense. It's story about the war on terror. I'll give it a shot. Okay so it's the American election. As you recall the economy has tanked foreign policies of disaster and it's no wonder if it goes for the guy promising change. But not everybody. Some people are worried because he matches the description of the enterprise in the book of Revelation for it's say his name shall add up to 6, 6, 6. Really? Huh. What do I care? I'm from Canada. Although my secret plan in those days was to move to New York and become an artist because I love the draw. Oh crap. Well close enough. You get the picture. But I got no ideas for art except for the evil ones in the box and I don't want to unleash those on the world. I mean art should be beautiful or at the very least not evil. It's a paradox. I mean if I'm good why don't we even have these evil thoughts? And if I'm evil why do I care? Why do I still live in my parents' basement? Probably because I'm 19 and the idea of getting a job next me sick. It's just not me. And one day I have a crazy idea. What if I wasn't me? I could do whatever the hell I want. So I invented ultra-eagle like a secret identity. The column American face. He always wears a gray hoodie and some broken sunglasses like he's the unabummer at the beach. And I don't know it yet. But I just opened a door to a whole world of trouble. Once I've opened my cell to American face I feel refreshingly free from limitations. Like the world's one big piece of concept art. I phone random strangers and read them poetry. Tonight we'll this. I'm calling the cock. I carved my new name in letters 10 feet tall in the cut banks at the edge of town. Cool. I climb half naked into a boulevard tree and play experimental jazz solos on a plastic recorder. And the passing hippie kid says, hey man do you need help? But down? But I'm not even high. I'm just free from limitations. It only looks weird because it's the early 1980s. There's nothing but limitations. There's no jobs even if you want one. We got through the 70s dreaming of a brighter future. Now it turns out the only difference between the past and the future is the past sounds like this. Sounds like this. And the future sounds like this. It's no wonder everybody's smokes. Long cancer. There won't be time. There's one of President Reagan's big changes. He'd not be called for. We're facing the mother of all limitations. Armageddon, the end of the frickin world. Cool. I got to get me a front wheel seat, a time square. And I'm no longer crippled by stupid paradoxes. Good evil. Those are just ideas. The only thing that's real is will par. You want to go to New York? Just do it. So I started hitchhiking towards the big apple. But I only make it as far as Vancouver. Then I'm crashed up my friend Jerry's couch one night and I have the craziest idea of my life. The trouble started when I had one of those waking dreams. You know, like a little movie running through my head. American fist takes New York by storm. And with these great willpower puts an end to this stupid cold war. Problem is, now he matches the description of the Antichrist in the Book of Revelation where it's safe and power was given to him over all the nations of the earth. Well, why did they put that part in? Now, if anybody tries to unite the nations of the world, we'll all think he's the Antichrist. Which is found by American fist because he's the Antichrist. He's just been using me as a vessel so he can bring on Armageddon. Whoa. What a creepy ending, although it would explain my evil thoughts. Suddenly I feel uneasy about the whole American fist program. So I tried to put American fist back in the box. But he doesn't want to go. It's like a glass control on my evil thoughts. It's a one-of-a-way train of evil thoughts. My head is booming. My friends have so special. Which I won't be seeing anytime soon. I crawl back into my parents' basement and I stayed on there for three months. Watch in television until the shows are one big skidmer. Come, there's some hearty stew that tell a mother that I'm going to be ready who was bringing up from the crung came up of building crew at three out of crew. In those days TV shut down for an hour in the bed of night, I go on the back garden and smoke. I'd just leave the back door open a crack so I can rush back in if I get too terrified. It's quiet. Too quiet. There's nothing to distract me from the TV shown my head, which is running 247 like one of those crazy conspiracy videos you see on YouTube. Down like a controlled demolition to physics explosions or squids need someone planned to perform. I got no wreckage was found on the bend of Gawla. Can we really trust a family's no relation to a Sam? There's no collection to sit down. It only sounds like Nae Bafia-emes Bon Orr Aharr ahrarr ahra The maddog so old. I broke in my brain. I wanted to have a shrink, but I'm scared to lock me up. Another damn paradox. So I just hunkered down in my parents' basement, and I hoped that my brother would be a demon. And then I'd be like, oh, I'm going to die, I'm going to die. Oh, that's a great thing. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die with my child. I'm going to die with my child. I'm going to die with my child. And his basement and hope that my brain heals them its own.