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

Unavoidable Awkwardness

As I cruise the aisles of the surprisingly tawdry local Kroger amidst the endless colors of capitalism bombarding my every orifice similar to what happened to that sweet girl Debbie when she took that infamous road trip to Dallas all those years ago, I am overcome by sheer terror.  I fight the urge to lash out at the Count just because I currently don't care for his knowingly smug grin.  It's like he's telling us he can see through our naive belief that we actually possess the will power to deny his new cerulean flavored Casper-like comrades, we can't.  

Unfortunately for me, the unfathomable dread that has shrouded me like a barbwire blanket has nothing to do with that decadently delicious dickhead, but of the imminent small talk interaction I will inevitably have to undergo with the market clerk.  Now don’t get me wrong, I actually enjoy small talk interactions that involve two parties who both realize that only a few obviously superficial words need to be exchanged. 

For example, just the other day I was at a gas station and the man behind the counter asked if I was a DJ, due to the fact that my t-shirt had a set of head phones around the neck.  At that moment, complete comprehension and understanding of exactly how Johnny Depp felt when the Vegas valet ominously exclaimed to him, “I’ll remember your face” was achieved. 

I was at a crossroads; one path led to an almost definite awkwardness lasting about the time it took the clerk to figure out how to ring up the orange no one ever buys because we’re in a fucking gas station.  Or, the other, albeit more unethical yet less traveled road, is to tell the unsuspecting gentleman that I was in fact a DJ in time that has long since past.  I reflexively chose the latter.  I figured this was the best route in which to avoid an unnecessary awkward exchange, contingent on the fact that I could keep up this inexplicable lie for the next 38 seconds.  I had faith that I chose about as wisely as a German choosing a Grail. 

Unbeknownst to me, this clerk did not buy into the mind numbing programs MTV shards out quicker than day old sesame chicken.  This gentleman's DVR had to of been filled to capacity with Dr. Phil reruns and whatever that  show is called with the 5 shrews sitting in a semi-circle verbally molesting some poor A-lister until the inundated celeb sheds a tear to show they are still alive keeping those couch-conjoined vultures at bay.  (Color commentary on the potential answer is greatly appreciated).  He proceeded to delve into my contrived DJing past, spelunking his way through the ever growing cavernous stories I concocted.  All the while “Inyuk-chuk” was fittingly echoing in my head as I stared at that Apache Chief looking character on the American Spirits poster, making me grin due to the ridiculous comparison of my fabricated past being metaphorically manifested as an obscure Native American superhero.

As I turned to leave I glanced back to make sure the person behind me wasn’t signaling a L7 on his forehead, the clerk gave me an infinitesimal nod as if to say, “You’ll get your groove back B-boy” or whatever the slang used to call retired DJ’s who were never actually DJ’s.  Driving back to my house, not realizing till I pulled into my driveway that I forgot to pump the $8.36 of gas I payed for, I contemplated the lengths I apparently go to avoid an awkward moment with a complete stranger.  The speed in which Spaceball One achieved causing Lord Helmet's brains to go into his feet came to mind.

Chit-chat, a phrase that makes gazing into medusa's stare a completely acceptable choice over having to say "chit-chat" out loud around others, and social pleasantries are an unavoidable yet necessary evil in western culture.  Unfortunately the reciprocation of these necessities is not always ideal due to the fact there are a vast amount of people we, as grounded individuals, have little to nothing in common with, Americans often call them spouse.  Therefore we should not have to be subjected to this extrinsic practice of awkward small talk, unless it being interesting or humorous in its value.

I am not saying, by any means, to abolish common courtesy or simple manners, but for me to have to grudgingly force a fake smile, because I apparently am the spitting image of some guy the CVS clerk went to high school with, is dumber than Asians in roundabouts.  Be nice, not unnecessary.

Rise of the Hipster

As I cruise streets on a trend filled Thursday night, I take a second to entertain a few of my senses.  Not only are my eyes the sole benefactor of the scene my mid-sized city has fallen prey to, but the sense of utter dread comes like a wave over my entire body engulfing me in a state of apprehension to my next step.  No sooner do I take my next step that comprehension of this dormant 6th sense of dread's awakening, comes to fruition.  You guessed it, standing before me is none other than the pacifist insurgents that have taken over my city...The ever growing hipster nation lays before me like an intentionally poorly dressed warzone.

            Those that have seemingly risen from the shadows of Neverwhere are in actuality an evolution of hippies under the guise of social aristocracy.  Absolutely contradictory in its genius.  There is no missing the thick, so you can't miss it, rimmed glasses, which upon further inspection do not include lenses. I have painstakingly been putting shards of saline saturated bendable glass in my eyes for years so that a girl, who doesn't wear rainbow colored stockings under a corduroy skirt, won't throw a mason jar of hydrochloric acid at my crotch just because I say hi to her at a bar. 

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            The tight V-neck cloth male blouses are something that is about as comprehensible as the plot of Mulholland drive articulated to me by a deaf guy with Down syndrome.  FYI, Daniel Tosh was wearing deep V's in his second season to make fun of you guys, trust me.  The way they still are able to hide the fact that they have accumulated a whopping 3 chest hairs, all uncannily long yet still very anti-Sly Schwarzenegger or anything else resembling badassedness, is nothing short of inexcusable.

          

             Still these “ironic” displays of unconformity, does not even hold a torch to the center piece of this well planned chaotic fashion upchuck and that is of course the under-armor fit denim slacks.  Even if Carl Sagan, with his uncanny ability to actually put it in laymans terms, teamed up with every Nobel prize winner for every category in existence since the fall of Ming and they came up with a way to mathematically explain the acceptance of these blasphemous leg covers, then gave their ground-breaking explanation to Morgan Freeman, and he explained it all to me over some warm chai tea in the presence of the Most Interesting Man in the World, I still would not get it in the slightest. 

            

             My friend put it best; while we were sharing some in descript beer, not because it was “cool” because I refuse to pay an alimony payment for some craft beer with an eagle perched on a bear’s shoulder on the label.  He motioned to some frail looking murse wielding manboy, and said “I’ll tell you one place he didn’t get those pants, and that’s in the men’s department.”  Then I proceeded to fulfill a hipster’s yearly laughing quota in the next 30 seconds.

           He couldn’t have been more right, it seems that if Brian Boitano feels the need to discreetly inform you that your scared crotch turtle has reared its ugly head through your denim tights, you might want to punch every single one of corner table mannequinesque friends in the throat for not going Simon Cowell on your pansy ass every time you asked them to help you zip-up your fly while handing them a wrench.

       

             The sight of these tool sheds is about as tolerable as Kathy Griffin’s Chihuahua, yet still gets overshadowed by the feeling of envy of all those blessed deaf people, while within earshot of any true hipster.  Walking past the café’s and patios of bars filled with overpriced beer, I feel like I just was on the receiving end of the Dread Pirate Roberts, to-the-pain, treatment, due to the constant wails of male maidens commenting on the high oak content in their Riesling, or the flippant tone used to describe the “social peons” in the thrift store, said hipster, bought his new/used/who cares cardigan in July. 

              Now looking ridiculous for the sake of looking ridiculous is fine, not my bag, but easily tolerated, yet trying to sound like your brain was developed by some think-tank in Switzerland, or your taste buds have been nurtured and honed by your personal chef Wolfgang Batali, and your personality as a whole is so fucking astounding that is was not only gift-wrapped personally by Donald Trump, but then given to you by the Prince of Dubai and shat out by a gold-plated elephant for your 16^th birthday.  Balderdash. 

         

            This overwhelming social perfection, which can only be compared to the last 5 min of a captain Planet episode, is by no means a product of ridicule unless of course these qualities are not even closely possessed by the so-called personality Power Ranger.

     

            Now therein lays the sole driving force of the Hipster epidemic.  The constant combo of naivete and indifference of their unjustified smugness and arrogance towards all that enjoy sweating on occasion or wearing glasses out of necessity, is what defines them.  These purple auraed individuals know not what they do.  They are all a product of their collective cliques’ unobtrusive progression towards constant malcontent of the status quo, regardless of how fringe it may seem.

            I have accomplished only to scratch the surface of this 5 foot thick Titanium wall of inexplicable culture shock that has recently hit me like a dozen angry monkeys using their feces as softballs, and me being in the dunk tank with a pack of bananas.  Not once in this normal thought have I even delved into the newest fashion craze these urban pansy elitists have dubbed the new regal cloth, that being flannel, so I assure you readers myself and the Hipsters are far from reaching a conclusion.

To end here's an awesome video I found, by some brit who apparently is in agreement with me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVmmYMwFj1I&feature=player_embedded