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Groan, you did it anyway. Well, well.

Gordon Hooper was born on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain, East Berlin, 1977. But don’t hold that against him, you capitalist pig. He was imported to Stockholm, Sweden at the tender age of two. Like all Swedes he is frozen in a block of Carbonite for most of the year. According to his mother he started to play hooky in kindergarten, and kept it up throughout his dreary education. Regarding his dreary blue collar career–the least said the better. Naturally he prefers to slumber in the gilded net of social security. As seen in the picture he writes with a quill pen made of a feather from his harpy ex-girlfriend. The ink is a mixture of blood from far left feminists, and tears from Millennial Snowflakes. For paper he uses tanned hides from the inbred knuckle draggers of the far and alt right. A hopeless romantic, he is always searching for a filthy whore to share his life with. He writes in third person, but thinks and talks in fourth person (that’s when the first and third person constantly interrupt each other).

You can send your letters of unabashed flattery and adoration to droog@planetmail.com or contact him at Facebook (there is only one Gordon Hooper in Stockholm, Sweden, as when another appears they fight to the death à la Highlander).

New Libri Press is Hooper’s long-suffering publisher (accute case of Stockholm’s syndrome). Pay them a visit and check out their other great works at https://www.newlibri.com/

As we do not say in Sweden–Arrivederci.