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June 26, 2004

Avoirdupois 451 (Re-Post)

Just pimping my old material. A hit-piece on Michael Moore seems topical, so I figure, what the heck, re-post the whole damn thing.

It might be a couple of months old now, but the central truth of this post remains as true now as it was when I first wrote it: Michael Moore is a big fat sack of fat.

He's also a lying anti-American terrorist-symp, but that's a topic for another post.

Mike's Message

Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an interesting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.

So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.

Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.

I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.

"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"

It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?

"Saddam Hussein was just an innocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.

I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.

I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike incisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated intestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.

A pack of Guatemalan-Indian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?

They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.

"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.

I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the insides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.

"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Indians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Ingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."

"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.

"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."

The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.

"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.

"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.

I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are interrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.

"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.

"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the indifferent April breeze.

The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.

The boy is inconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.

My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.

The chicken runs.

"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."

The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.

Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.

The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.

"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.

I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.

I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.

"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Intestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"

The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.

I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.

The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.

The chicken has escaped.

But George Bush will not.

Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.

And I am hungry.


Hat Tip to Nick Kronos who originally wrote the Jimmy Breslin parody this is a variation of. He also tossed me the best line in the whole thing, "miscreant fowl."

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posted by Ace at 02:13 AM

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