The Boie who would be King.

Hi friends, this is the bio of a friend prepared for a journalist grad school application. It is the story of a remarakable life. Enjoy!


I was born on a life raft. I do not tell many people this--I fear their reaction would be one of doubt and disbelief--but it is true. My mother and father were emigrating to Vancouver from St. Petersberg, Russia. My father made shoes for the Politburio officials in St. Petersberg, like my great grand father had made shoes for the Tsar before him. Legend has it that Ivan the Terrible and Peter the Great both enjoyed leisure time in pairs of loafers made by my ancestors. My mother made a great loaf of rye bread and sold them daily at the market. Loaves and loafers were our livlihood.

On top of being the top loafer in St. Petersberg my father was also terminally cheap. He had lived under the Soviet planned economy his entire life. Prices were set by the Politburo of the Party. Bread cost the same everywhere. As did slacks and eye make-up, baking powder and clock radios. Yet, in spite of this being the only system my father had ever known, he would comparison shop for cars, even though there was only one kind available from one place. He would tell my brothers and sisters that they wouldn't get new jackets until there was a sale, even though sales were illegal. My mother would save some of the money she made selling her quota-fulfilling loaves of bread and would buy new jackets or slacks, and even the odd toy.

My father was the envy of all the other loafers in all of St. Petersberg. Providing loafers for the members of the politburo was the loafer equivilent of playing football for Dynamo or Red Army. While the other loafers in St. Petersberg lived hand-to-mouth and scrabbled to fulfill their quotas and feed their children, my father was always well taken care of by the politburo members he provided loafers to. His higher-up clientele always ensured that my father had plenty of workers, was at the top of which ever list he needed to be the top of, provided gifts of vodka and caviar on special occasions and holidays.

One man my father made shoes for, a fat ill-mannered Politburo official name Yuri, suffered from shin splints. Mother joked it was because of his fat ass, but nevertheles, father custom made a very special pair of loafers. These loafers ended up helping fat Yuri's shin splints and Yuri was most thankful. Having someone in the party who owed you a favour was better than money in the bank at that time. For Christmas that year my brothers and sisters all got Levis jeans and Michael Jackson records. And my mother and father were approved for extended vacation on the Black Sea, which wound up, somehow, being paid for.

This under the table gifts were the norm, and no one said anything aloud, but there were many whispers as to the possible origins of the blue jeans and three week vacations. Sure it would make neighbours jealous. The lady three doors down, who used to sew clothes with mother, didn't speak to her again when the family returned from the Black Sea vacation. The local butcher, who father would supply with custom loafers in return for choice cuts of meat, had to be given loafers for his entire family before he would set aside the best cuts of meat once again for mother.

All of this suspicion could be beared so long as the privledge continued to be doled out by the connected party members in return for free loafers. But the Politburo officials, catching wind of the wonders the custom-made loafers did for Yuri's shin splints, soon began to demand my father handcraft all of their fat asses custom-made loafers to treat their excesses of vodka and caviar ailments. My father became burdened with demands for loafers, and this time he couldn't ask a client from the Party to put in a requisition for another worker. These fat-well-connected men would only accept loafers made by my father's hand (my father was the best loafer in all of St. Petersberg, if not all of Russia, so they could tell if a pair were made by an apprentice.)

My father became exhausted from overwork. He began drinking more of the free vodka he was provided and became irritable and mean spirited. Late one night, while he was still at his shop making a pair of brown loafers for a fat Party man, one of the fat men came by, likely drunk and full of caviar, and complained that my father's loafers didn't help his back pain and demanded my father make him a new pair by tomorrow. My father, also drunk, flew into a rage and told the fat Party man what he could do with the unsatisfactory pair of loafers he had been given in exchange for 2 bottles of vodka. As drunk men who yell at one another tend to do the fat Party man and my slender over-worked father came to blows.

Fist-fights with Politburo were fround on under Brehznev were frowned upon. Perhaps not as harshly as Stalin might have frowned upon them. But he had a large moustache weighing his top lip down. In Stalin's day my father would have been disrobed in a public square, made to dance a folk dance, in the nude, in the winter, and then sent off to a gulag in Siberia. As it was he was reprimanded harshly. Kept in jail for a few weeks. And his business licence was refused. The only work he would be provided with was as a collier in the small town Dzrabnovy Trsk.

My father had had more than enough of being bullied by the loafer laden politburo, and now that he was on lists and things the Gustapo and KGB would be keeping their eyes on him. So he and Mother decided to pack up my brothers and sisters and row to Finland under the cover of darkness. He cashed in a few favours with some fishermen friends whom he bedecked in loafers and on the night of November 13, 1980 my parents and my brothers and sisters rowed a small tin fishing boat from St. Petersberg, arriving in downtown Helsinki 12 days later.

My father forgot to bring any money with him, so he had to sell all of Mother's and his possessions, and made my brothers and sisters wait tables in tourist restaurants to get together enough money to defect permanantly to America. After several months my father found passage on an ill-fated freighter called "Esatikkanen" hauling batteries and hockey sticks to Vancouver, British Columbia via the Panama Canal. Of all the possible ways to travel to North America this was by far the cheapest. My father got the whole family aboard for 50,000 Rubles, on the condition that the family would preform a nightly mime-musical routine for the crew. I am to understand that by the time the ship was sailing full steam ahead across the Atlantic the act had become quite highly regarded as the best mime-musical routine any of the crew had ever seen.

At some point in the voyage my mother and father stowed away in some nook or cranny and managed to concieve me. According to my mother's diary which she managed to save, it would have happened somewhere off of the Irish coast. I came due around Fiji, which is where Laosian pirates attacked the Esatikkanen and managed to puncture the haul with a stolen Cuban torpedo that had gone missing during the Cuban Missle Crisis. Apparently the pirates had thought that Esatikkanen was carrying pickled herring, which was highly sought on Laos by the descendants of shipwrecked Finns from the 17th Century.

Esatikkanen sunk rather quickly. The batteries were dead weight and sucked the ill-fated ship to the floor of the warm Caribean ocean with only a few gurgles and one grande gloop. The crew took special care of my father and mother and brothers and sisters and ensured that they were the first to find a life raft. The whole family was loaded on an orange dinghy--along with the ship mascot, an albino Bengalese Tiger named Percy--and set of bobbing in the hockey stick-littered ocean current, with my father and eldest brother steering the raft with hockey sticks. Because my family took the first lifenraft there were were not enough for the rest of the crew and several good sailors perished to the mirky, battery-charged depths.

My family bobbed for 13 days in their hockey-stick steered orange life raft with the albino Bengalese tiger Percy surviving on krill and floatsom cooked in the baking Caribean sun. Early on the morning of the 14th day my mother's water broke and and by noon on teh 15th day I was born into the world. My parent's named me after an obscure Danish god of the sea, Boie Rasmussen.

On the 16th day a small cessna carrying cocaine from Colombia bound for San Fransico crashed 40 yards from the life raft carrying my family and the albino Bengalese tiger Percy. My father and eldest brother rescued the two drug dealers who were floating on bundles of slowly sinking cocaine with Finnish hockey sticks. For another 3 days our life raft floated with my father and my mother, my brothers and sisters, newborn me, an albino Bengalese tiger named Percy, two Colombian drug dealers, and 2 bundles of water-logged cocaine worth $4 million on the streets of Los Angeles, California.

On the 20th day Percy got into the coke pretty good and became enraged and ate the leg of one of the drug dealers. The other drug dealer shot Percy in the hindquarters. Now both the legless Colombian drug dealer and the gun-shot wounded albino Bengalese tiger Percy were bleeding profusely and soon sharks began to circle the raft.

By the 67th day, when the American destroyer "USS Demolition Destroyer/Jimmy Carter" rescued us from the brink of death, a shark had jumped onto the life raft and ate the other leg of the legless Colombian drug dealer. Before the shark could do any more damage the Colombian drug dealer with the gun had shot it to death and Percy quickly to a hit of coke and devoured the left over shark.

The USS Demolition Destroyer/Jimmy Carter delivered us to Canadian Naval base Comox, on the Vancouver Island coast, the Colombian drug dealers were handed over to the FBI, after the one's two missing legs were repaired in San Jose hospital, and the albino Bengalese tiger named Percy was sold on my father's behalf to Sigfriend Henderson and Roy Horne of Las Vegas, Nevada for a healthy sum. The remaining cocaine was lost at sea.

The money my father made from the sale of Percy was used to open a new loafer and dry cleaning shop. My father and mother became wealthy and, while most of my brothers and sisters were too old to benefit fully, I was placed in the finest West Vancouver private schools. And each summer I was sent to the world's premier mime training camp in Amsterdam, "Van Gogh's Severed Ear Actors for the Deaf and Mime Academy." I was also tutored by Walt Disney Jr. in animation. And was sent to the finest boy's finishing school in Europe, "Sowboil's Boys and Budding Men's Academy of Academics, Mimery, Macroeconomics, and Magic," in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Upon graduation from Sowboil I was enrolled in prepatory underwater university in Lake Michigan at the "Lansing Prep College and Lakeside Driving Range." Where I finished two-years of elite mime fighter training, as well as culinary arts, herbotony, and AutoCAD drafting training. I was awarded the "Student You Will Wish You Were at the 10 Year Reunion Award of Distinction."

After my time in Lansing I enrolled in International Politics and Espionage at the University of Calgary, which is renown for producing world leaders in both fields (i.e. Stephan Harper and Morgan Murray). After only 1.5 years in the program I was sent on official CSIS assignment to the former Soviet Bloc to poision several ex-operatives who were unfriendly to the west. That is all I can say about that without putting whoever reads this' life at risk. But during this time I also studied Belly Dancing, Opera, Classical Music and Economics at the University of Economics, Prague. It was here that I collaborated with Morgan Murray, the top Espioneur Canada has ever produced, on a project to profile and curb the megalomanic tendancies of Putin who desperately sought to throw Russia back into the Cold War with the west.

I was given an honourary degree from the University of Calgary for International excllence in relations and espionage in the fall of 2006. After which I returned to Europe to stabalize the German economy after their most recent election.

During my time at Calgary I also hosted a weekly arts and entertainment television program, with whom I interviewed the likes of Broken Social Scene, Sue Johannson, and Atmosphere, among others.

Currently I live in West Vancouver and write a weekly music column for the Tyee, an online leftist magazine, as a means to infiltrate leftist media in Canada. I also volunteer at Shaw Television and am working to iradicate public television one camera at a time.

I am applying to your program as a means to become a sanctioned journalist. After which time I will infiltrate Russian journalism in the promotion of free speech and use my miming, animation, and rock journalism skills to create a Monty Python's Flying Circus meets Royal Canadian Air Farce meets The Colbert Report type show to poke holes in Putin's credibility and liberate the Russian people once and for all. If I am not successful in this mission, which hinges on my acceptance into your program, the fate of the free world hangs in the balance and nuclear armageddon is only a matter of when, not if.

Happy Choosing!
Love, TBR.

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