Mother Stephan

Out of his convulsing thighs I came; a bloodied mess of mucus and flesh; and into the world I was born; borne of Mother Stephan. Unfortunately for him, this meant that his conception tool — now resembling the aftermath of a bazooka and a peeled banana combined — was now permanently out of commission, meaning that I was the last in the long line of Stephan-scented soldiers. As he clutched my infantile form to his tender breast, I began to contemplate his worthiness on Life's Ladder.

How could I rank someone so integral to my construction, without whom I wouldn't be here to write this? Actually, come to think of it, the person responsible for this here jumble of junk should be punished, not rewarded. So Ben, you can keep your title and platter and marble-substitute trophy, and, because you aimed in that direction (and for no other reason), I have decided to award you the Pulitzer Prize for your latest* post.

*Information correct at the time of writing.