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Bruce Willis’ nipples hardened. He spoke to the mass of doughy citizens at the Assembly of God Church in the Strip Mall on the outskirts of Baltimore.
“I’ve got two words for those ungrateful fucks: Marshall Plan. Huh? Right?”
“Kick some ass, Bruce!” hollered the man in front with the unibrow.
“My nipples are hard right now – pure lean American beef. Grade A packed with pride, and now flash the image of the mother at home listening to Garth Brooks mmm bootie fuck slash her rubber car tire ohhh Demi baby squeeze my nip!”
“Yeeahh Bruce!” screamed the crew-cut security guard with a wedgie. “Your inner dialogue’s comin’ out all sloppy like – you’re tellin’ us what you’re really thinkin’ and I think I like it! Shiit…”
“We’re gonna force freedom on ‘em – see how they like some - ” he twitched and screamed in a feminine voice, “Momma, mmm mommy Bruthie want milklets from ba ba bottle!” He started dancing in the rigid working-class manner of Bruce Springsteen in the 80’s. “Mmm. Freedom fuckers. Mikey likes it! Mikey likes it! Mikey’ll eat anything!”
“Shit, homeboy’s trippin!” said the Hispanic skater boy who listened to Christian speed-metal. “He’s all ill, like on angel dust and shit.”
Ewan and Jon stood close by, smoking Drums. Ewan offered, “You know, often in the history of fascist movements, strange matriarchal symbolism comes to light. I read it somewhere. It’s like those milk drinks in Clockwork Orange. Mom becomes a source of solace that justifies violence…”
“Whatever,” Jon returned. “But let’s get the hell out of here. Bruce has totally lost it!”
Date Written: March 27, 2003
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 3.6667