I'm absolutely certain my mom's Marilyn Monroe. Why else would there be two pictures of her on my cave wall? My brothers keep saying, "Oh, no, no, no," but the lying jerks steal my food and kick me off the cliff every day, so there's no listening to that? I really need Mom to teach me how to be a lady and how to be more appealing to my boyfriend, Andy Warhol. He made her pictures and is living with her in Pittsburgh, humans say. My ethics teacher, Jack Kevorkian, and pack goat, Joseph Kennedy, think otherwise, but what do they know; they're human and not the Princess of Hell. Along the way, you might hear an idiotic rumor about someone accidentally burning down Mexico City, too, but I didn't do it. None of the people mentioned in this book actually did anything I suggest they did because it's fiction. If you recognize a name, it's someone I like-when they're not being annoying. I'm a demon and misunderstood, sometimes. Heaven and Hell probably don't exist. Bolivia and Pittsburgh probably don't exist. In other words, my book is one, big, fat lie, except when I talk, which is always right, or I'll fry your brain.