Hyperbole (Not "Hyper Bowl")

Bask in my grandeur, fear my destructive wrath. The deafening magnitude of my voice, sans artificial amplification, has shaken even the tallest buildings. I possess the ability to turn water into wine and lead into gold. I expertly sanitize telephone poles, I fight wild dogs for loose scraps of meat. I race cars blindfolded and regain consciousness in the fetal position. I steal national landmarks and sell them at flea markets.

I grow Florida oranges in California orchards. My soothing, melodic symphonies garner praise from the citizens in Oman. I irritate the animals in the Australian Outback, I feast on the suffering of despondent politicians. I construct cells for minimum security prisons. I have revived dead lawnmower motors.

I deliver mail to the homeless. My syndicated comic strips delight as well as horrify. I write jokes for award ceremonies while I sleep. I secure cargo for cross-country skiers. I demand attention, I disrespect royalty. On lunch breaks, I deliver babies for surrogate mothers. I have grown corn in the Sahara desert. Generally, I hibernate during the summer.

I have played guitar with Jimi Hendrix. Instead of working, I dive for sunken treasure, without the aid of an oxygen tank. I pitch forks and water skis. My beard has been known to frighten the elderly. I can communicate with the dead, but it occurred to me that they have nothing new to say. My endorsement enrages the Establishment.

Of course, it should be no surprise that I am still single.