Bruce Willis Revealed

          
           There have been countless actors gracing the silver screen over the years who possess the superior ability to mimic accents, psychosis, and every emotion in the book.  In some cases the range in which these personality thieves can exude to make us believe they actually are who their colossal nosed, thrifty directors, tell them to be, makes identity theft look about as easy as beating Stephen Hawking in the steeple chase. 

look at my black hole bitch

         
          Bruce Willis is not one of these thespians, and I am almost completely sure if you call him a thespian to his face his retained personal taxidermist will be that much closer to sending his kids through college because Mr. Willis prefers to stuff and mount his accomplishments when dominating over lesser men.  I do realize by revealing what I am about to tell you about one of Hollywood’s most beloved badassess and well kept secrets will most likely result in me ending up in a forgotten place, put there by men only referred to by a number, as the memory of me will slowly fade from all who knew me quicker than Parker Lewis.

After getting cancelled, Parker got a new wardrobe, kept his barber and Conan O'brien was born    

           

          Type casting is a frequent practice in movies but Bruce-casting is rarer than a High school diploma-weilding Jerry Springer guest.  This extremely secretive method utilized by only the wiliest of directors is to find a man who encapsulates everything the masses look for in an anti-hero, and then proceed to capture his every move on camera like some trumped up mind-blowing reality show.  This method is seldom used due to the fact only one man has ever been discovered to possess the perfect combination of rugged good looks, a personal life in shambles, and a complete indifference of one’s own well being.  The Bruce is that man.

           A day in the life of this man consists of waking up every day at 8:37am sharp, regardless of the former nights' intoxication level, still clutching his bottle of hooch, cursing his habitual internal clock who refuses to forget his 17 years of stellar metro PD service by raising him like he was still employed.  He rises to dust off his denim coat only to remain unfazed by the entire camera crew who refuse to leave his side until Shlomo Goldenstein is satisfied his summer blockbuster has enough material to use.  The Bruce then slugs down the last of his legal poison and hurls the empty bottle at the gaffers feet, because the rage he felt upon noticing the Fire Dancer tattoo on the DMB dickwad’s upper arm has to be on par with the Hulkster glancing out his front door and seeing his son’s best friend driving by in the Escalade his pink boa paid for as his ex wife gives this 19yr old Beiber-looking piss ant an HJ from shotgun.

The mark of the modern day eunuck

          We all know what happens next because we pay $10.50 every 8 months to witness the terrorist-fueled reality that The Bruce lives every day, unfold on an obnoxiously large screen in our adequately comfortable one-level of recline theater seats.  We watch this man get incessantly bitched at by his ex, or soon to be ex, wife for constantly inviting his friends Jack and Jim over for a one-man dude’s night out every waking moment of their pathetic marriage.  He trys not to notice his pre-pubescent son in the background slowly shaking his head at his failed father’s existence, all the while making sure some Californian city doesn’t end up like the Gaza Strip.

           The Bruce’s day pales in comparison to the nightly mental hell he puts himself through.  Unshowered, because his water recently got shut off, due to the fact that accidental vigilantism pays about as well as lacing up Nikes in Cambodia.

At least we're not Hipsters.  You said it.

          

          His only recourse is to sit in his steel chair forcibly rubbing his forehead with the butt of his standard issue 9mm recounting the 3 year downward spiral his life took to get him to this point of utter hopelessness.  His right hand tirelessly clutches a bottle of Evan Williams, as if he parts with it his entire world will crumble under the weight of his own self-loathing.  The only lighting in his barren apartment is a single bulb that sways from the ceiling above his table like a pathetic pendulum over his head giving the scene the feeling of an investigation room from a shitty PBS cop show, barely keeping his one companion in the world shrouded in the shadows.

        The former nomadic wolf resentfully glares stoically from the corner with his piercing red eyes because any slight movement will result in a look from his master that is hushly considered the lost 11^th plague of God, never mentioned due to its incomprehensible destructive force.  The wolf only understands to do The Bruce’s bidding by a furrowing of his master’s brow or narrowing of his eyes, then and only then, is he permitted to leave the confines of his somber dwelling.

        This man lives in a solemn studio apartment with décor that makes Al Capone’s digs in Alcatraz look like the Bellagio, he reluctantly saves the West Coast from ruin on a daily basis, he has a pet wolf who he controls with drab emotion, his nuclear family hates his guts, yet he still manages to dance a highly inebriated yet slightly joyous jig on occasion.

         Do not believe the fallacious life Hollywood formulated for him filled with a Demi divorce only to be then comforted by the angel Brooke Burns and now is married to some B-list super model, the whole time wearing a trendy bowler on the red carpet and flashing a grin that would send a nun’s knees to the sky.  

She made Boris forget about his stint at Auschwitz, I think gettin over Demi was a breeze.

          This masterpiece of bullshit painted by  some PR da Vinci has lulled us into believing that he's a good natured badass in front of the camera, while off the cameras, he's some down-to-earth stylish all around good guy, who dates supermodels in his free time..False.  See in his world there is no cameras,  that man on screen that we see is the actual Bruce Willis and not some actor who can shut off after the cameras stop rolling.

          In January he couldn't suppress his true vehemence when he found out his likeliness was being put on a fucking fragrance, poor Haiti may never recover from Bruce's 7.0 anger.  Hollywood higher-ups were forced to donate their ferraris for their rash decision that fateful day.       

          

          You now know the truth of the man commonly referred, in the informed circles, as “The Bruce”.  This man is not to be loved, but revered and feared like a kind-hearted Dictator who is not afraid to kill with due cause. 

The Bruce