R.D. Winfrey was born on the roof of a salami factory somewhere near Louisville, Kentucky. The last time we checked, that area was a part of the United States, although we don't know for how much longer. The circumstances leading to his birth are still shrouded in mystery and cheap vodka, but many believe it had something to do with a nearby livestock auction.
In any case, the little pug-nosed punk was dutifully raised by a flock of Canadian geese, who taught him how to fly long distances and crap on people's windshields. He was a quick learner and was found to have the intestinal fortitude needed for high-altitude bombing raids on such prized targets as rush-hour traffic jams and shopping mall parking lots.
Unfortunately, a mid-air collision with a cross-eyed duck ended his flying career.
He spent his remaining teenage years as a string-puppet in a traveling Creationist lecture series, where he played a brontosaurus that had converted to Mormonism while on Noah's Ark. After a large tour of the southern states, he gave up being a puppet in order to study law, which he thought could best be accomplished by breaking into the U.S. Supreme Court building and stealing every book in the place. He almost succeeded in his plan, but was apprehended when he accidentally set-off his dump truck's alarm system.
After three years of imprisonment in Guantanamo Bay, and feeling exceptionally soggy, he decided to get a job as writer for the prestigious entertainment-news magazine: "Pornography Today." He worked there for six months, essentially writing the same movie review over and over again. He eventually quit that job, and enrolled in a charter school for misguided badgers, where he earned a Doctorate in Advanced Growling.
After a long sojourn to Tibet, Kashmir, and East St. Louis, he decided to settle down. After many extensive courtship rituals, he ultimaely married outside the family.
Currently, he spends most of his days writing grocery lists and fictious bus schedules. Occasionally, he writes a book or a short story, but only if prodded with a stick or a large bowl of warm mildew.
He is the writer of "The Porridge King."
If enough people buy it, his wife has promised to let him out of the shed.