The Life and Times of Ernest Miller Hemingway in Approximately Three and a Half Minutes/Transcript

This is the transcript of the segment The Life and Times of Ernest Miller Hemingway in Approximately Three and a Half Minuteshttps://genius.com/Randy-feltface-the-life-and-times-of-ernest-miller-hemingway-in-approximately-three-and-a-half-minutes-annotated from Randy Writes a Novel, written by Heath McIvor.
==The Life and Times of Ernest Miller Hemingway in Approximately Three and a Half Minutes==
Randy Feltface: Fascinating man, Ernest Hemingway, um...
I didn't know a lot about him but I kept thinking of that quote, "The first draft of everything is shit", while I was writing my book and I started to think... "Who are you to tell me my first draft is shit, Hemingway? What did you do that was so fucking good?"
So, I realized I didn't know anything about him, so I decided to do some research on him, and it proved to be an excellent means of putting off writing my book.
And now I can tell you everything I know about him as an excellent means of putting off reading you my book.
So, swings and roundabouts, my friends. Swooms and rimble-dimble-doodle-doodoos, as they say in Scotland.
They don't say that. No one has ever said that.
Anyway... what I suggest we do, okay, is I'm just going to tell you a little bit- a bit about Ernest Hemingway. A bit about Hemmers, and then we'll just let the segway into reading the book develop organically, like a runaway fungus at the bottom of a misplaced coffee cup.
"Ah guys, how long's this been behind the couch? Oh, there's little people in it!"
Fungus: "Save us, save us from our porcelain prison!"
Randy Feltface: "Waaaaa!"
(crash)
Fungus: "We're free!"
(fast walking)
(squish)
Randy Feltface: It's just for me, that bit. It's just for me. Okay...
Okay, here we go, ladies and gentlemen, for the very first time I would wager. In all of your living memories. I now am proud to present to you the life and times of Ernest Miller Hemingway in approximately three and a half minutes.
Go!
Born in Chicago in 1899 son of a physician and a musician. Reasonably uneventful childhood.
Decided to study journalism.
Enlisted with the Red Cross during World War I. Got blown up in Milan and spent six months in hospital with severe shrapnel wounds in both legs.
Fell in love with the nurse. They decided to get married. He came home to prepare. She stayed there and ditched him for an Italian soldier, which initiated a lifelong pattern of him rejecting women before they had a chance to reject him. Take note Matty.
Got a job as a foreign correspondent. Fell in love with his roommate's sister. Married her and moved to Paris. They hung out with Gertrude Stein. They kicked it with Pablo Picasso.
He started writing in earnest (no pun intended).
Moved to Toronto. Had a kid. Moved back to Paris. Published a couple of books.
Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman.
Converted to Catholicism.
Cut his head open after pulling on a cord thinking he was flushing a toilet and instead ripped a skylight from the roof and smashed it onto his face!
Moved to Kansas City. Had another kid.
His dad committed suicide.
He shot a lot of bears for some reason.
Had a car accident. Had another kid.
Went to Africa to kill some wild animals and got dysentery.
Karma!
Published another book. Moved to Cuba.
Shot himself in the leg whilst aiming at a shark!
Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman.
Published "For Whom The Bell Tolls". Sold half a million copies in a couple of months and got nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.
Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman.
Became the self-appointed leader of a band of village militia outside of Paris and was subsequently brought up on charges for contravening the Geneva Convention and got away with it like a fucking champion!
Got pneumonia. Moved back to Cuba and spent most of his spare time on his boat tracking Nazi U-Boats with a machine gun and a pile of hand grenades!
I am not making this shit up!
Had a few more car accidents. Three more concussions.
Got clawed while playing with a lion!
Got depressed. Drank. Got fat. Published a couple more books.
Went back to Africa to shoot some more wild animals and barely survived two separate plane crashes in the space of 24 hours! Winding up with a fractured skull, internal bleeding, cracked spine ruptured liver, first-degree burns and a paralyzed sphincter muscle.
Karma!
Won a Nobel Prize.
Had a file opened on him by J. Edgar Hoover. Left a bunch of shit in a safe in Cuba and moved to Idaho paranoid that the feds were following him. Which they were because he spent most of the 1940's working for the KGB! Again! Not making this shit up!
Suffered from hepatitis, nephritis, hypertension, hemochromatosis, anemia, and impotence.
Karma!
Got committed. Received way too much electro-convulsive therapy and came out all fucked up. Started hinting at suicide so immediately got recommitted. Received another couple of months worth of
electro-convulsive therapy. Got released.
Put both barrels of his favorite 12-gauge shotgun into his mouth and blew his fucking head off.
What a guy!
That is all true! What a fucking unit!
Hemingway is the quintessential anti-hero, the talented, charismatic, belligerent, suicidal, alcoholic genius that can't keep his dick in his trousers.
And he still found time to write about fifteen books!
I've written one! And it took me ages because I procrastinate like a motherfucker.
== List of References ==
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