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Stupid Fuckin' Douchebag


by Crabby McGrouchpants


     Rob Zombie had a problem: he sucked, but he had achieved a modicum of fame/success/notoriety due to his "playing the game correctly" for a while, and now his star was starting to wane — now that that the pop-culture standards were shifting to a more refined level of critical acumen, and it was becoming all-too-egregiously-apparent that the "novelty" of his persona was, in fact, little more than just that.
     I need a new moniker, he decided, it's time for a change . . . shake things up a bit . . . keep things fresh!
     "Hmm . . . " he thought aloud, mouth-breather that he was.  "What should it be?  'Bob Vampire'?  'Phil Ghoul'?"
     (Pause.)
     "Naaahh . . . "
     He picked up his cell phone and rang his agent, whom he got most of his "ideas" from.
     "Hey, Bill!" he shouted into the phone, after he circumvented three secretaries and their long-practiced barrage of excuses designed to keep him at bay (he was well known around the office for being "difficult," "stubborn," and, uh, "stupid").  "What's this about Nightmare on Elm Street, Last House on the Left, and The Hills Have Eyes all being remade by people other than me?"
      "Listen, Rob—" his agent started to say, a bit too hurriedly.
      Rob Zombie ignored him, and went on.
      "I mean . . . that's my schtick, dig?  I suck, remember?"
      "Rob—" his agent tried again.
      Rob Zombie cut him off again.
      "I mean, part of making my suckiness palatable and, uh, selleable is that—"
      "Rob!"
      " . . . you know, like I did Halloween, and—"
      "ROB!"
      " . . . and then I went ahead and remade Halloween 2!  Pretty inspired, right?  I mean, who'd—"
      "Rob, hey, listen, I'd love to talk, but I've really got to go to the bathroom right now.  Talk to you later."
       He hung up.
       Rob Zombie stared at the phone, stupefied.
       That had to be the lamest, most transparent excuse a C.A.A. agent had ever used to get off the phone with someone —  client, studio head, whatever.
      It jolted him out of his life-long stupor.
      "Wha—?" he thought aloud, breathing heavily.  "That can happen to me . . . ?"



      The front door burst into the room — flying off its hinges — and Chuck Norris stormed in.  "You're one of the sorry motherfuckers who's turning this country into the shithole it's becoming!" he shouted at Rob Zombie accusingly, pointing his finger at Rob Zombie through his delivery of this line, like a note suspended in music.  It was like something out of Walker: Texas Ranger.
      "Who the fuck are you?" Rob Zombie said, still struggling out of his stupor, like someone awakening out of a long nap.
      "I'm Chuck Norris, you stupid fuck," his interloper said, slipping a pair of brass knuckles out of his jeans pocket and onto his right hand in one fluid motion while delivering the line with an appropriately-feigned note of seeming-incredulity.  (He didn't really give a fuck if Rob Zombie knew who he was or not — the fact that he had no clue only confirmed to Chuck Norris that he was right about how oblivious this guy was to "the Real America," anyway!)  "Time to pay the piper!"
      " 'Time to pay the—'  What?"  Rob Zombie was starting to grasp that yes, this was in fact happening to him — outside his head, and everything!
      But it was too late.  By the time he got the last word out, Chuck Norris had already grabbed him by his white-boy dreads and brought his face into contact with his brass-knuckles-covered fist.  He pounded and pounded and pounded his face until it looked like hamburger (if hamburger, like, you know, sucked!).
      Then — as soon as it began, it seemed — he dropped Rob Zombie to the floor, and headed back out the door.
      Once he was properly framed in the doorway, he turned and — as though delivering an exit line in one of his crappy, non-Code of Silence movies — said: "Take a warning!"  (Again, with the accusatory finger-point as accompaniment to his line).
      He split.



      "Take a warning???" Rob Zombie repeated to himself, then spit out a half-decayed, nicotine-stained tooth onto the hardwood floor.  "What warning . . . does he mean?"
      Then he looked around the room and he—
      Wait a minute: why am I telling a story about this guy anyway?
      He sucks!
      Aw, screw it.
 
                 THE END

     


    
          for Kim (I think . . . )
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