Yo; I’m Titus Pullo. You, know, THAT Titus. Dad named me after the good natured but deadly centurion, one of only two soldiers mentioned by Julius Caesar in his memoirs. But Dad missed it on this one; he’s usually pretty ace on naming the inmates, but there’s not a martial bone in my body, Roman or otherwise. If he had looked past my appearance and into the foggy recesses of my brain, he would have named me Spicoli, as he was the stoner surfer dude from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”.
Rebecca Porras of Hollywood Feed was the first to notice my proclivities, but Dad was a bit too obtuse; he’s nowhere near as hip and streetwise as he thinks he is…
It’s not that I’m a particular advocate for indulging in the devil’s lettuce(can’t fit me floppy lips around the bong), but neither am I adverse to snacking on the occasional high octane edible every now and again. You know, just to take the edge off and all. Dad attibutes this habit to my totally chill approach to many things in life; even my battles of Bitey Mouth with Charlie are remarkably laid back if not lengthy affairs. Imagine a buff Bob Marley stepping into the Octagon and peacefully kicking some serious tail.
You can even see it when I run, as there is a disconnect between the front and rear halves of me body. The front half tends to stay on track, while the back half seems to have a mind of its own, bouncing to and fro behind me like a caboose that’s unencumbered by the rails. Talk about the proverbial train wreck; I can do a great deal of damage to Dad’s soft tissue based on my bulk and momentum alone, but there isn’t a aggressive bone in me body. I’m a lover, not a fighter, although my lovin’s sometimes are a bit to enthusiastic for the meek and unexpecting.
Then there’s the munchies. The wet, mucking, sound of me massive maw opening to inhale a morsel cannot be described with words; one can only imagine an alien creature from Star Wars attempting to ingest the Aluminum Falcon.
Then as soon as the carnage is complete, I disappear in a cloud of brown and white hair, only to be found curled up on Dad’s pillow. It is here that I sleep the sleep of the righteous and dream of my next mission, doing exactly what I want to do when I want to do it with absolutely no idea as to the reason why.
It’s great to be the Titus.
