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.
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
. 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.
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.
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