Am I the only one who' fed up with celebrities? And am I also the only one that' doing something about it? I kick celebrity ass because celebrities think they're better than us. In some ways, maybe they are. But they sure as hell don't fight like it. Let me run down a few highlights from a lifetime of fighting for the honor of the common man:

WHO: Mickey Rooney (with a bonus Shirley Temple)
WHERE: Irvine, CA. May 12, 1998; Pediatric Cancer Research Foundation luncheon.
HOW IT WENT DOWN: So I'm crashing this luncheon, hankering for some fisticuffs. Lots of has-beens stumbling around, trying to crank the wheel of karma back their way before they're cheeks-deep in the permafrost. That lousy sack of germs known as Mickey Rooney tosses me the stink-eye and it' high noon. I'm up his grill, all "come on Mickster, let' tussle Vaudeville-style." The old coot says something like, "Sir, this is a mis"¦ mis... misunderstanding. This is for charity"¦ for the chil"¦" and I'd had just about enough of this stuttering geezer. I grab him by his flabby throat. But then whatta you know, over waltzes Shirley Temple. Little Miss Good Ship Lollipop is ready to break up the party, so I grab her by the pantsuit and hoist that little princess over my head. Right then and there, I literally throw a Shirley Temple in Mickey Rooney' face. Geriatric dominos, down they go. A two-fer, as they say. Priceless"¦ ass"¦ beating.

WHO: Stephen Hawking
WHERE: Orlando FL, March 31, 2000; MegaCon sci-fi convention.
HOW IT WENT DOWN: I hadn't kicked any celebrity ass in five, maybe six days. I'm just itching to knock the dust off my knuckles. I'm looking for Brent Spiner or Warwick Davis or any old airplane-glue-sniffer to whoop up on. Then all of a sudden, he comes rolling on in on his John Deere: the granddaddy of all theoretical physicists himself-Stephen F-ing Hawking. Goddammit if I didn't start whistling the theme song to Red Dwarf. First off, Stevie sounds like a Speak-and-Spell, and that can't help but make me nostalgic for my days as a knee-high ass-kicker. I'm ready rip him a new wormhole, if you will. But experience has taught me to be patient. I mean, you can't just roll the gimp over a bridge. Wily bastard just puts on the brakes. Yet a well-placed broomstick in his spokes and a well-delivered kick to his back and you'll have the good doctor splayed across the buffet table. I did it, friends. And it was glorious.

WHO: Walt Disney
WHERE: Brookline, MA. December 12, 2002; New England Cryogenic Center.
HOW IT WENT DOWN: I know what you're going to say: "But he' already dead." Correction: cryogenically frozen. I've got a buddy who works security for the place where they keep his cartooning butt on ice. He let me in one afternoon and I wailed away on ol' Walty until sundown. I kicked him in the nuts alone for at least half an hour. Don't get me wrong, I love those old Disney films. It was just a chance I couldn't pass up. And you can bet, when they defrost that fatty in the age of rocket cars, he'll cough up some blood, see the boot prints on his chest, and know I was the baddest mo-fo in the 21st century.



WHO: Kirsten Dunst
WHERE: New York, NY. June 12, 2004; Nobu.
HOW IT WENT DOWN: Not as wiry as an Olsen twin, not as crafty as Winona Ryder, but a formidable opponent nonetheless. I saw her out on the town, acting all adorable and I knew I had to deliver a little two-fisted justice. After all, this is one of the people responsible for Mona Lisa Smile. Granted, I didn't see Mona Lisa Smile, but I heard it was a steaming pile. And Dunst would have to pay for that. So I roll up my sleeves, point at her and say, "Bring it on, Blondie!" And you know what? Her crafty ass just smiles and she says, "Very cute, what would you like me to sign?" This sends me into berserker mode. Before Dunst can say "Jumanji," my elbow' hitting her forehead and her bony keister is hitting the ground. I half-expected her to jump up and bite my neck Interview with a Vampire-style. But here' one of life' great truths: unconscious actresses don't bite.


WHO: The kid from Two and a Half Men
WHERE: Los Angeles, CA. April 2, 2005; Nickelodeon Kid' Choice Awards.
HOW IT WENT DOWN: I haven't a clue what this little snot-factory' name is, but nothing makes me sleep better at night than kicking ass on some pint-sized smart-aleck. I'm waiting outside the back entrance of the Pauley Pavilion, puffing a Lucky and hoisting a two-by-four. The door cracks open, and out stumbles the doughboy, all high on cotton candy and delusions that he' an actor. One swing. Thwack! Bam! Junior is eating pavement. Two seconds later, out steps Charlie Sheen. Looks at the kid. Looks at me. Looks at the kid. Then he motions to me for a light. I cup my hands and fire him up. Sheen takes a long drag. He looks back at the kid, and says what we're all thinking. "About fucking time." That' right. Then he kicks the porker in the ribs for good measure. And don't tell me it' wrong to beat up children. Don't say, "but he' only half a man." Because I'll just have to beat his ass twice.

WHO: Stevie Wonder
WHERE: Where haven't I?
HOW IT WENT DOWN: I just called"¦ to say"¦ will this SOB ever learn? I can't remember how many times I've kicked his blind ass. I might wear a pair of slippers and sneak up behind him while he' tickling the old ivories. I might put on a fake accent, pretend to be a deliveryman and pummel away. Doesn't matter. I once beat up Stevie Wonder 15 times in one weekend. No wonder he' superstitious.

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