A/N: I am attempting to write a humour fic. -Watches everyone crawl under a rock and shake their heads defiantly-. C'mon. Give it a try?

-o-o-o-

The Autobiography of Derrick James Harrington

With commentary by Cameron Fischer.

My life began on a balmy day in midsummer, when I took my first breath in New York's most expensive hospital, the Golden Apollo.

Dude, you were born in February. In a freaking taxi cab.

I was on my way to New York's most expensive hospital, thanks. I was a remarkable baby, and everyone loved me the second their eyes fell upon my gorgeous brown eyes.

Derrick, your mom wanted to hurl you across the delivery room because you put her through two days of labor, remember?

That was only because my head was abnormally rotund.

In other words, it was fat. And let me tell you, his head wasn't the only thing.

Thank you, Cam. As I was saying, my family loved me-

Yes, they were alone on that one, though.

Dude! Are you here to insult me or help me?

The first one. Duh.

Ugh. Anyway, I spoke my first word at three months old. And it was awfully advanced compared to other babies.

He's right, actually. It starts with F and ends with -uck.

Cam!

Firetruck!

I took my first steps-

-into insanity-

-at a mere nine months old, and ate my first solid food at-

Man, no one wants to hear about when you ate your first solid food. Or even what happened after that.

Of course they do!

No, they don't.

What about that kid who's going to do his fifth-grade oral report on Derrick Harrington, all star goalie of a fancy Brazilian soccer team?

No fifth-grader in their right mind would do a report on you. You're going to grow up to be an alcoholic, playboy-watching, fat loser. We went over this already.

I'm not going to grow up to be fat. I'm going to grow up to marry a rich French supermodel named Juanita, play pro soccer, and own a yacht.

Derrick. You have never, and will never own a yacht or marry a rich French supermodel named Juanita. The name Juanita is freaking Spanish!

Whatever, Cam, but if you're going to be jealous, can you ooze over there? Away from my novella?

Dude, you don't even know what a novella is.

Are you just going to sit there then, and insult my intelligence?

Yes.

Bitch. Where was I? Oh yes. I started school at the Lower Briarwood Academy at age five, where I met my best friend-

Me!

No. Where I met my best friend, Josh Hotz.

Can you get any stupider Derrick? Josh went to some fancy Swiss boarding school until last year.

I meant, where I met my best friend Chris Plovert.

Plovert wasn't held back until the year after, remember? And before you even say Hurley, let me remind you that it was you that stuck your used gum in his afro puff all year?

Fine, fine. It was where I met my best friend, Cameron Fischer.

That's me. The one who doesn't sound like an illiterate baboon.

Did you just make fun of me?

He really isn't a smart one, folks.

I'm going to ignore that. Let us fast forward to seventh grade, now.

This is where the funny stuff happens.

I got a girlfriend, her name was Massie Block.

She was a bitch.

She still is. But, she's a hot bitch. Which is really all that matters.

See how superficial he is?

Why thank you, Cam. I am pretty super, aren't I?

No. Superficial.

Yes, Cam, that's what I said. Anyway. She had a bunch of followers. There was Alicia Rivera. She had the most voluptuous, bouncy, beautiful-

Dude.

-curls that I'd ever seen.

She was the slut.

There was Dylan.

The pig.

And Kristen.

The uber-smart jock.

Last, and most definitely least, Claire.

The crybaby. Who ended up being my girlfriend. I really do get all the luck, don't I?

This not about you, Cameron. This is about me. And about your girl issue, you realize that we can't all be as sexy as me?

Derrick, you are in no way, shape, or form sexy

Of course I'm not Cam. But then what's your explanation as to how I got the hot bitch, as opposed to the drab semi-human waterhose?

Dude. You remember that Massie liked me first?

Mere technicality. Now, where was I?

You were talking about how you're allergic to the fake grass they use on the soccer field and how you get a really bad rash on your-

Cam! My rash is none of their business! Or yours, for that matter.

See? I wasn't making it up.

Yes you were! He's lying!

No I'm not.

You're not worth dealing with. Back to me, now. After I got with Massie, things happened, and I dumped her.

And now she's with me. Yessir, we've got a steamy relationship going down.

No you don't, Cam! Stop it!

Make me.

If you don't, I'll...I'll...I'll-

Stutter at me?

Shut up, Cam, just shut up.

Way to tell me off, dude.

Yeah, I know. Anyways, after that, I wrote this genius autobiography-

-which you all know wouldn't have been half as successful if I hadn't commented.

Yes it would have.

They would have fallen asleep by the time you started with the solid foods.

Cam, you're a jerk, you know that?

Of course, but that's why you love me.

Wha-

And here, folks, is where Derrick Harrington's lame attempt of an autobiography rests in peace. But fear not. Knowing the endless size of his ego, you know he'll be back with another shot. And you know I'll be right next to him... commenting.

-o-o-o-

A/N: It's really a lot shorter than it looks, words-wise. So now, tell me about how terrible it was. Reviewers get to insult a Clique character of their choice to their face. Lisi included.