Guy ManCock Ahabs Rush
Guy ManCock fondled the serrated steak knife as Spielberg prattled on over whatever the hell he talked about most nights. Always the robotic shark or how much money he made or what sort of interest he was getting in Bogotá. Guy was so tired of these parties. Celebrities gathering around the warmth of one another. Huddling against the uglies and the norms. Masturbating one another’s egos into the night. Pulling names from hats to determine marriages and divorces. Children and diseases.
Ever since the border between politics and entertainment had fallen it had gotten worse and worse. At least in the good old days a person could find a quiet corner in which to do lines with some magazine publishers. Sean Penn was always good for some hard drugs. Guy would often sidle up to the table, bringing his own silver straw, and they would speak at an incredibly fast pace about little to nothing of importance. This would be considered a good evening.
But now that the politicos were getting invites everything was both more boring and more taxing. A star of the silver screen would be casually tossing back Harvey Wallbangers, trying to get a buzz on, and the next thing you know a congressman would be asking what you knew about inner city Cincinnati. Who the fuck gives a shit about Cincinnati anyhow? Guy wasn’t an activist. He was a Rock God, damn it. Band Aid and other like-minded fundraisers were supposed to keep these pigs at bay, braying for money and food and rights for people who probably don’t even buy albums in the first place.
Guy ManCock had bigger fish to fry. Pirates for one. He tried to mention this to the politicals. When they asked him what he was doing for children in South Side Chicago, he would respond by asking what they were doing about the damned pirates? The pirates that make the headlines all troll the waters of Somalia. Indonesian rebels out to kidnap pleasure cruisers. These events make the news while millions of dollars every day are stolen from musicians and actors in the form of digital piracy. Where’s the special forces team shooting teenagers through their bedroom windows? Where are the FBI agents roughing up the kids? America was fucked, and it was people like Limbaugh that had gotten her drunk.
“Listen Steve, I don’t give a shit about your shark. I still can’t forgive you for stealing AI from Stanley. You cool your heels and get your head straight. I’ll be back after I stab this dude.” said Guy dismissing Spielberg with a wave.
Guy cruised farther into the depths of the party, all the while maintaining the serrated steak knife. He had brought the blade with him. Whenever he arrived at the party he found the knives were all hidden. It was a sort of game for him. He had recordings of individuals discussing his hobby and how it ruined gatherings.
Transcript:
Ashton Kutcher: Look, I like the Guy personally. He made me lose my virginity. I’m just saying that if he’s coming over we should definitely edit the guest list a little, and hide the knives.
[Indiscriminate muttering.]
Ashton Kutcher: Yeah, yeah it’s fun to throw knives at a cardboard box, yes, I agree, but eventually Guy forgets that we’re playing and starts throwing them at the guests. If he gives me hard drugs I start doing it myself. Sarah won’t talk to me anymore.
Guy would be the first to admit that he had a tenancy to lose control in social situations. It was all too contrived. All too pleasant. Plastic surgery on parade and no one willing to get really crazy anymore. Too much press. Too many tabloids. Spy cameras taking pictures up playmate’s skirts. The recording devices were everywhere. It’s all fun and games until digital capture of you making out with a 16 year old leaks to the press. Ask Robert D.
But the worst. The absolute straw on the back of Guy’s camel. Beyond the fact that you can no longer smoke indoors and cocaine is “Too 80’s!”. Beyond the up and comers having the conversational skills of sea cows. Above and beyond all of these crippling blows to Celebrity Cool were the interlopers of politicians.
Rush Limbaugh had picked the wrong party. He thought he could score some cheap drugs and chase some tail from the WB [word of it‘s cancellation had never reached him]. Rush could run with the pretty people. What the hell? As the borders of entertainment and activism dissolved like a sugar palisade in the rain Rush was the vanguard charging into their midst. In the back of his mind he was compiling a blacklist. A list of people who disregarded and condemned him. When the pendulum swung in his direction they would find their backs against the wall.
But Rush was always the center of a lively debate. He could always find someone foolish enough to challenge his opinions, and the schadenfreude of his tirades would draw a crowd. As sure as a piñata or gang rape the celebrities would come to shout at him, or his opponent. Though most would assume celebrities to be progressive sorts, liberal in nature, they are more conservative than not. Most of them have caches of rifles and a deep larder ferreted away in some Wyoming retreat. A little apocalypse contingent in the event that the impoverished cease to be entertained.
There are more conservatives in Hollywood than DC any day of the week, and when they gather together they enjoy seeing someone like Rush. They indulge their inner capitalist. As much as they talk about the poor and kids in Africa for sound bites, the celebrity animal is, by definition, a wealthy creature. To Rush they would gather and they would bathe in the glory of it all. The injustice of a nation run by commies and gays. The sadness of a once proud America being driven into the end times because of a deterioration in fundamental values. Rush would get hopped up on ill begotten pills and call to order a revival.
“Hey Guy. I didn’t think you liked Rush?” asked Will Smith.
“Never you mind Smith. I was never here.” said Guy before diving into the heart of the tempest.
Rush was doing it again tonight. Ruining the party. Spewing his patented brand of hate and intolerance and the crowd that gathered was rutting in their righteousness.
“THEY OUGHT TO CALL IT THE BLACKHOUSE! HOW IS A MIDDLE CLASS WHITE MAN SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE IN THIS “AMERICA” ANYMORE!” screamed Rush into the hive.
His face was red and swollen. Streamers of sweat and saliva flew as he turned and yelled, spewed and wallowed. The crowd ululated with freakish complacency. With a face made for radio, Rush was not selling himself as a sex machine. He was a 500 lb minister of hate, baptizing the unwashed in sweet hot superiority.
Guy worked past the concentric circles of celebrity. All of them huddled around Rush, some because they believed him, others because they could not look away. Groupthink had taken over the conversation pit and Guy strode to meet the obese viper.
Backstabbing is an art lost to the mists of time. Relegated to a dishonorable act, the actual history is quite laudable. The first assassins [Hashishin] believed that killing an individual was an act done to save lives. Rather than force an entire population to fight on behalf of a handful of lords battling over land or money or dating or whatever, a single person could be killed to change the course of action. Prevent a single person from causing the warfare that would kill thousands.
The serrated steak knife was buried to the hilt into Rush’s fat ass. The sound of the blow reverberated through the suddenly silent room. Like a drum filled with uncooked bacon being spanked with a sharp fist. The strike had taken a substantial wind up on Guy’s part and the instant gratification from the terrible violence saturated his every part. His hair stood on end in the moments before the screaming. Before the screams. After, there would be blood, and charges being pressed, and steak knife endorsement deals, but for that moment, Guy was in paradise. He delivered his parting line;
“From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. You fat fuck.”
Ever since the border between politics and entertainment had fallen it had gotten worse and worse. At least in the good old days a person could find a quiet corner in which to do lines with some magazine publishers. Sean Penn was always good for some hard drugs. Guy would often sidle up to the table, bringing his own silver straw, and they would speak at an incredibly fast pace about little to nothing of importance. This would be considered a good evening.
But now that the politicos were getting invites everything was both more boring and more taxing. A star of the silver screen would be casually tossing back Harvey Wallbangers, trying to get a buzz on, and the next thing you know a congressman would be asking what you knew about inner city Cincinnati. Who the fuck gives a shit about Cincinnati anyhow? Guy wasn’t an activist. He was a Rock God, damn it. Band Aid and other like-minded fundraisers were supposed to keep these pigs at bay, braying for money and food and rights for people who probably don’t even buy albums in the first place.
Guy ManCock had bigger fish to fry. Pirates for one. He tried to mention this to the politicals. When they asked him what he was doing for children in South Side Chicago, he would respond by asking what they were doing about the damned pirates? The pirates that make the headlines all troll the waters of Somalia. Indonesian rebels out to kidnap pleasure cruisers. These events make the news while millions of dollars every day are stolen from musicians and actors in the form of digital piracy. Where’s the special forces team shooting teenagers through their bedroom windows? Where are the FBI agents roughing up the kids? America was fucked, and it was people like Limbaugh that had gotten her drunk.
“Listen Steve, I don’t give a shit about your shark. I still can’t forgive you for stealing AI from Stanley. You cool your heels and get your head straight. I’ll be back after I stab this dude.” said Guy dismissing Spielberg with a wave.
Guy cruised farther into the depths of the party, all the while maintaining the serrated steak knife. He had brought the blade with him. Whenever he arrived at the party he found the knives were all hidden. It was a sort of game for him. He had recordings of individuals discussing his hobby and how it ruined gatherings.
Transcript:
Ashton Kutcher: Look, I like the Guy personally. He made me lose my virginity. I’m just saying that if he’s coming over we should definitely edit the guest list a little, and hide the knives.
[Indiscriminate muttering.]
Ashton Kutcher: Yeah, yeah it’s fun to throw knives at a cardboard box, yes, I agree, but eventually Guy forgets that we’re playing and starts throwing them at the guests. If he gives me hard drugs I start doing it myself. Sarah won’t talk to me anymore.
Guy would be the first to admit that he had a tenancy to lose control in social situations. It was all too contrived. All too pleasant. Plastic surgery on parade and no one willing to get really crazy anymore. Too much press. Too many tabloids. Spy cameras taking pictures up playmate’s skirts. The recording devices were everywhere. It’s all fun and games until digital capture of you making out with a 16 year old leaks to the press. Ask Robert D.
But the worst. The absolute straw on the back of Guy’s camel. Beyond the fact that you can no longer smoke indoors and cocaine is “Too 80’s!”. Beyond the up and comers having the conversational skills of sea cows. Above and beyond all of these crippling blows to Celebrity Cool were the interlopers of politicians.
Rush Limbaugh had picked the wrong party. He thought he could score some cheap drugs and chase some tail from the WB [word of it‘s cancellation had never reached him]. Rush could run with the pretty people. What the hell? As the borders of entertainment and activism dissolved like a sugar palisade in the rain Rush was the vanguard charging into their midst. In the back of his mind he was compiling a blacklist. A list of people who disregarded and condemned him. When the pendulum swung in his direction they would find their backs against the wall.
But Rush was always the center of a lively debate. He could always find someone foolish enough to challenge his opinions, and the schadenfreude of his tirades would draw a crowd. As sure as a piñata or gang rape the celebrities would come to shout at him, or his opponent. Though most would assume celebrities to be progressive sorts, liberal in nature, they are more conservative than not. Most of them have caches of rifles and a deep larder ferreted away in some Wyoming retreat. A little apocalypse contingent in the event that the impoverished cease to be entertained.
There are more conservatives in Hollywood than DC any day of the week, and when they gather together they enjoy seeing someone like Rush. They indulge their inner capitalist. As much as they talk about the poor and kids in Africa for sound bites, the celebrity animal is, by definition, a wealthy creature. To Rush they would gather and they would bathe in the glory of it all. The injustice of a nation run by commies and gays. The sadness of a once proud America being driven into the end times because of a deterioration in fundamental values. Rush would get hopped up on ill begotten pills and call to order a revival.
“Hey Guy. I didn’t think you liked Rush?” asked Will Smith.
“Never you mind Smith. I was never here.” said Guy before diving into the heart of the tempest.
Rush was doing it again tonight. Ruining the party. Spewing his patented brand of hate and intolerance and the crowd that gathered was rutting in their righteousness.
“THEY OUGHT TO CALL IT THE BLACKHOUSE! HOW IS A MIDDLE CLASS WHITE MAN SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE IN THIS “AMERICA” ANYMORE!” screamed Rush into the hive.
His face was red and swollen. Streamers of sweat and saliva flew as he turned and yelled, spewed and wallowed. The crowd ululated with freakish complacency. With a face made for radio, Rush was not selling himself as a sex machine. He was a 500 lb minister of hate, baptizing the unwashed in sweet hot superiority.
Guy worked past the concentric circles of celebrity. All of them huddled around Rush, some because they believed him, others because they could not look away. Groupthink had taken over the conversation pit and Guy strode to meet the obese viper.
Backstabbing is an art lost to the mists of time. Relegated to a dishonorable act, the actual history is quite laudable. The first assassins [Hashishin] believed that killing an individual was an act done to save lives. Rather than force an entire population to fight on behalf of a handful of lords battling over land or money or dating or whatever, a single person could be killed to change the course of action. Prevent a single person from causing the warfare that would kill thousands.
The serrated steak knife was buried to the hilt into Rush’s fat ass. The sound of the blow reverberated through the suddenly silent room. Like a drum filled with uncooked bacon being spanked with a sharp fist. The strike had taken a substantial wind up on Guy’s part and the instant gratification from the terrible violence saturated his every part. His hair stood on end in the moments before the screaming. Before the screams. After, there would be blood, and charges being pressed, and steak knife endorsement deals, but for that moment, Guy was in paradise. He delivered his parting line;
“From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. You fat fuck.”
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