HUGE NEWS!!!!!!!!

I had just read Barnyard's post about finding Alec Baldwin's appointment only phone number, and that got me to thinking. Has Brian Dennehy, Barn's father, ever done any thing with the Best Baldwin? Of course, being two of the finest craftsmen we this planet has to offer at this time, they had to have crossed paths at some point. Its kind of like that scene in ghostbusters 1 when the boys are at their wits end against Gozor, (i think that's its name, the demon monster god who was in sigourney weavers fridge), and then Ray suggests that the only option they have left is to cross the streams of the their ecto blasters. But then Venkman, played brilliantly by Bill Murray, remembers a conversation from earlier in the movie and says, "Ray, isn't that the one thing we're not supposed to do?" ,and Ray, with a look of no small concern on his face says something like, "Yes, venkman, but it may be our only hope." And then they all shake hands and say what might be their last goodbyes to eachother, because really, who knows what's gonna happen with this? And they don't say goodbye like bitches either, but like PROFESSIONALS, because when it comes down to it in the end, that's exactly what they are. Professionals. And then you all know what happenes next. They cross streams and blammo, i just remembered its not GOZOR that they're facing now, its the Stay Puff Marshmallow man. And blammo, he blows up and everyone is covered in marshmallow goo. It worked!
So the point is, i was going to check if Baldwin and Dennehy had ever crossed their ecto streams, which could only result in disaster or pure heroism, but I got shang-hai'd before i could even do any research. Right there on Alec Baldwin's page, on the top of his long and distinguished (so is my johnson) list of roles, reads in glowing letters "THE SWIMMER". Holy shit boys and girls, are you ready for this??? That's right, Cary, believe it buddy. They are re-making the fucking Burt Lancaster classic and casting Alec Baldwin as the title role. My fucking god, if bigger things in history have ever happened, I don't want to hear about em. This is like the second coming of jesus, the resurrection of Burt Lancaster's famed Swimmer, now reincarnated in the form of one of this planet's greatest charmers, Alec Baldwin.
One thing i just thought of: Burt Lancaster only wears a very small swim-suit throughout the 2 and 1/2 hour movie. He just throws his chest hair around like confetti, and those meat paws. Those meat paws.....
Does Sir Alec Baldwin have the physique for this role? I can't imagine they would compromise the skimpiness for the re-make. Did he train for this role? I bet he's hairy enough, but does he have the sheer meatiness of paws needed to carry the film?
It doesn't say exactly when they expect this movie to be out in the theaters, but as soon as i find out, i'm putting a countdown tracker on blog, so that MEat Wallet can have the official rights to the countdown to Alec Baldwin's The Swimmer.
Huge news!
I just thought of something...
What if this is when the streams cross?
What if this is the movie where Dennehy and Baldwin match their forces together?

All those meat paws...

Thank you Harvey. Thank you for jack diddley shit. Actually, let me extrapolate on this feeling:

Eat my log. Hear this decree, all those who decide to comment on our blogs by posting bank information upon Meat Wallet's fine urine-stained bathroom walls! All ye who dare to post further bank information, I'd like to offer you a proposition. I bet you're terrible in bed, and guess what? I win that fucking bet. Boomshockalaka!

Now that I've dealt with Harvey, let me give the answer to my question. The film that contains the line pertaining to spousal abuse: Smokey and the Bandit. This movie fired me up. Number one: Burt Reynolds. Number two: That lady who is his co-star, I don't have the concentration to go to imdb.com. Number three: Stunts. Let's attack this numberifically.

1. Burt Reynolds - a demon released from the pregnant stench of hell, he is arrived upon our world to do one thing and one thing alone: act. And this man does this and more, playing the living legend "The Bandit," a rabble-rousing, policeman (a Smokey, according to an ancient truckdriving colloquialism) avoiding, stunt driving, laugh chuckling, CB radio talking, ego loving car driver. Reynolds yips and yells, smiles and answers questions like no one's business. A hat is worn, but this is not your grandmother's hat, nor is it a hat you'd invite to an evening gala at Martha's Vineyard. The hat exists as a bizarre totem for the "The Quietly Grotesque Bandit." as he does not allow himself to make love to ANYONE without the removal of said hat. The bandit's ever-pining foil is Sergeant Buford T. Justice, played by an absolutely delicious Jackie Gleason. The actor commands attention in a watershed performance that leads Gleason to his ultimate artistic statement, Smokey and the Bandit 3.

2. This actress was great! Her ass could solve the energy crisis. This movie provided wonderful answers to a common stumper. Namely, how does a director frame a proper buttocks shot when said director is filming two actors in a speeding car? Hal Needham does an exceptional job, worthy of a pile of money in fact. As soon as the plot began to sag, Sally Field just has to get something out of the back of the car. This is where the two actors truly meet, an emotional moment, as we see Sally Field's jean choked rear end. Smokey smiles and is patient, and then turns his head towards the set of buttock, He takes the moment in, and his honesty is apparent. There is only Smokey, played nakedly by Reynolds. The laughter rolls like echoes o'er mountaintops. That isn't art, it's life. It's life.

3. STUNTS BABY! Car crashes, car crashes, car crashes! Great work by a rugged crew of stuntmen and soundmen. Almost every single shot of a car going anywhere involves a loud racket and peeling tires. This works well when used as an overarching theme.

To sum up this film, let's discuss the previously touched upon but never fully described overarching themes of Smokey and the Bandit.

1. Car Stunts and assorted stuntery (bar fight, romantic scene)
2. Burt Reynolds laughing
3. Truckdrivers as folk heroes
4. The Police (Smokies) love hookers
5. Jackie Gleason advocates spousal abuse

-William Shale Thomas

It's 2:16 in the dumb dark humid New York City morning and right now i'm listening to the sounds of small forklifts and burly men weaving in and out of eachother a couple of blocks away, down at the fish market on the Seaport. It stinks of fish around here, but I can't complain because that's all part of the big beauteous CULTURE that this god Blessed (forsaken) town emits. Just the other night i was dangling myself drunk and drowsy from my third floor window (cheese's window) and I decided to take a walk on down to the middle of the action to see what kind of things went down there. So i put my most coolest scariest protective gray hoody on and skunked down to the bustling stinking fish market. There was bright flashing lights all over the place and very small ethnically mustachioed men wearing scuffed boots tooling around willy nilly on there fancy forklifts. I wasn't contented to merely watch from a distance, be the cool hoody'd guy who stays in the shadows leaning up against the brick wall, slowly snapping his fingers to some smooth doo-wop beat. I had to go in for a closer look. So i skunked into the middle of the mess, and immediately i realized what a BIG FUCKING MISTAKE I MADE. These people aren't joking around, apparently, and they didn't think it was funny or impressive or empowering of me to be nonchalantly braving my way through their workplace. My senses were almost immediately overloaded and i think the combination of all those mustache's and short fat bellied latino men and the stench of fresh trout in the air made me begin to hallucinate. People were flying by from all angles, throwing entire whales over my head and humping walruses in my periphery. I saw an authentic seven piece mexican salsa band, complete with an acoustic bass fifteen times the size of a normal instrument, being played by a homunculus mexican woman wearing a sombrero and a necktie which had a picture of the taco bell dog, who was also sporting a tie which featured himself wearing a tie.
When i thought i had finally made it out of the maze, I realized that I had only stumbled into the belly of the beast. This is when a ring of forklifts began circling me in an aggressive manner, accompanied by pistol shots to the sky and a repeating chorus of "AREEBA! AREEBA! ON-DA-LAY! ON-DA-LAY!". I understood from this that they hadn't welcomed me into their inner social network, that they didn't have room for one more vigilante cool cowboy wearing a hoody, following nobody's rules but his own. Especially not the rools of speling.
And then they started the heckling. I heard people yelling out the name "SCHKUNK" over and over again, and i eventually caught on that they were talking about me. They had dubbed me Schkunk for some reason that only a chalupa slinging fish monger could understand. But i wasn't going to just stand there looking so cool with my hands in my hoody pockets and do nothing. So I said " Stop calling me Schkunk!", but in a much more forceful way than you'd expect from the way it looks when put into words. Then I picked up the closest thing to me, which was a live lobster scuttling by my feet, and I picked it up and chomped into it. "Crunch!", it said with a crunch.
That got their attention. I heard a hush come over the crowd, and one meek gravelly voice from the burning ring of forklifts muttered "no me gusta". No me gusta indeed, funny-bones.
Needless to say that got the Schkunk talk nixed real quick, and the ring of forklifts that once enfolded me slowly opened revealing the bosom of the Atlantic ocean. Or the East River or something like that. I dunno. I stuffed that lobster in my hoody pocket and skunked away down towards the pier. That's when i noticed it wasn't a lobster. IT WAS A ROCK LOBSTER!!!!
When I got to the pier I walked with my head down to avoid eye contact with the non-hispanically ethnic but still as threatening youths that were hooting and hollering and generally making a big noise of themselves. They walked in groups of about three or four and when anyone came near them or walked into a fifteen foot radius of them, they would flap their arms like bully pterodactyls and make very high and low pitched grunts. Sometimes they would use words like "fuck" and "potat-uh" with the especially intimidating pronunciation with the "uh" instead of "o" at the end. This would flap anybody who wasn't quite as unflappable as me. But I kept on and soon found myself partnerless in a partner-filled dance section of the pier. This struck me as unusual because of the late hour. It was about 2 or 3 in the a.m. All around me were couples in various stages of attractiveness (ranging from steamy to slumpy) doing the intimate dance known as the tango. I was confused, but even more than that, i was attracted to a particular lady wearing a red dress and red high heel shoes. She moved like a goddess, a tango goddess, and she was ASIAN. So i did what any red-blooded man at the peak of his sexaul prowess would have done. I walked to the end of the peer, put 50 cents into the big swivel binoculars that are there to see the statue of liberty, and I turned them right around and aimed them at my lady in red. She was magnificent. Unfortunately, her eyesight was just as sharp as her dancing, because she spotted me nearly in no time. It didnt help that i was only about 30 feet away from her, and the only person at that end of the pier. She stopped dancing and made me feel uncomortable for staring at her. So i swivelled the binocs around and tried to see lady liberty. But it was dark and foggy so I only saw her shadow. I felt like i was peeping in on her after a steamy shower, and that made me feel SEXY.
After that I thought maybe it was time for me to walk on back to my (cheese's) apartment and hit the old hay. I walked around the fish market, because i already proved my point to that lot of bozos and hooch-hounds, buying a frosted donut and a package of sun-flower seeds from a sassy street vendor on the way. I gave her five dollars and when she gave me the coin part of the change, i said 'thanks', just to start the ball rolling on the end of our exchange. But she thought i was going to leave without the paper part of my change came back, and she said with all her sass and pride "Easy honey, not so fast", and some other demeaning things like "woah, quicksilver, not so fast", and "easy honey, not so fast" and so on until i swiped the merchandise from her and stomped my way home.
When i finally got back i turned on the BOOB tube and sure enough, true to its name sake, there were giant naked BOOBS on the screen. I checked what channel it was and found that it was the local access station for manhatten. I kept watching and over and over all i saw were 15 second long ads for exotic asian escorts, she-males, and horny hotties waiting for my call. Obviously, i kept watching for a while until one particular ad for naughty nurses caught me by suprise. It showed a very sick man, ailing from god knows what, lying in his hospital bed with an iv tube and a hospital smock on. Then, a very hot and naughty blonde nurse with giant bazoongas came into the room with mischeif written all over her. She first tied up the very sick man's hands to the bed post, then proceeded to lift up his smock and reveal to me, and any other poor schmuck who might be flipping the channels that evening, HIS BALLS. They'll show you balls on local access tv around here if you let them. There's more to this story but I'll have to finish the rest of it another time. I've already written enough, and if you've read this whole thing, i commend you for your patience. You're a trooper, and meat wallet thanks you for your support.
Go get 'em, tiger.

"When we get home, I'm gonna punch your mother in the mouth."

Sheriff Buford T. Justice

That's right. Tell me what movie this exact line appears in. Keep in mind this is said by a father to a son.

Answer forthcoming.

More coming soon.

Busta Rhymes appears in the movie "Narc" starring Ray Liotta and Jason Patrick, who, by the
way, if I was a woman, which I'm not, I would lay the the hell out of.
Do you remember asking questions like that to your friends before going to sleep? You don't? Yeah? Well, neither do I smarmy, why don't you go butter some bread.
I remember a sleep-over party I have when I was 12 or something. I actually can't remember my exact age, which conjures images of me five years later, only I'm Nell, that half-animal-half mentally handicapped thing as played by Jodie Foster in the feature film "Nell." Anyways, we get rowdy as shit, the 13 or 14 of us, and we play that sweet game "the blob" where one person dons a sleeping bag, therefore transforming into "The Blob." If the Blob grabs you and tackles you, you also became a blob and don your own sleeping bag. This goes on until only two friends remain, trying to hide and weave between 10 or 11 Blobs. The game is usually quick, unless the Blob is too slow, which Steve Hart is wearing a sleeping bag.
He simply cannot catch anyone, and people push him over and get in cheap shots while they can. This enrages young Steve, and he launches himself at his attackers. His aim is slightly off, due to his absolute blindness from said sleeping bag, and he dives headfirst into a thick metal pipe in our basement. An amazing sound rang out, and everyone became still, staring intently at the motionless body. The silence is punctured suddenly, as Casey Becker reaches over and punches Steve in the balls. Pandemonium ensues, blobs are created, balls are pummeled.

That life is not too far away. My urethra hurts (but only when I think of you).

Goddamn people eating their fat fucking bagels. these fucking philistines, these emotional cuisinarts come into
my place of work, my second fucking home, and they're fat! They're fat! What kind of world are we living in
when we let these sausage-fingered, porcine dickfucks eat MORE food. There are human beings in New
Orleans right now who deserve this food, not you, fatsy.

I have a job, I am making money. Yet I have no money. Where is the sense here? What pisses me off the most is the fat
people who come in with their gloopy wads of money, covered in lard and drool. Where the fuck does their money come from? Why do I have to borrow money from my brother to get by? One of these days, I'm going to crash over the counter, and whoever the fuck the old, fat couple is, I will pound every inch of their fat until I've earned a million dollars. Because people will pay me to do this, this random beating, this act of reasonable brutality. They will watch the savage blows reign down, as I shove the man into the day-old bagel stand, and boy does he just fucking BOUNCE off of it, right back into my fist. The guy immediately starts throwing up, the fatty chunks jettisoned like vegetable chunks out of a lid-less blender. Now I just pound the shit out of his wife as he watches and vomits. I get tired, so I take off my hat and people start filling it with dollar bills. I then pick up Mr. Fat Fuck Face and throw him flush through the glass desert display. Sheets of blood douse his wife's horrified and mangled face. I then turn to the slob wife and say, "Get skinny, now!" And she does, rather quickly. People are clapping and cheering, except for the other fat people at the coffee shop. They're trying to hide underneath tables, only they're fat, so they don't fit, the tables wiggling as every ripple of fat shivers in fright.
I wash my hands and continue my chore. Someone hands me the hat, and I'll be damned...a million dollars, in my hat. And all in big bills, too. Thanks skinny people, I think to myself, sweeping the floor clean. Thanks.

I remember when I had a real job, where I didn't start my day at 2:00 in the afternoon. The last person I knew who could wake up in the afternoon without blatant shame was Doug, and, well, Doug.

All Busta Rhymes could ever do was walk through doorways in music videos and show you his fingernails, let alone rap. Fucking rapper can't just rap, he has to throw on body make up and walk through doorways. Way to go, Busta Rhymes, way to fucking go.

Things that I already miss about Saratoga:

1. Not having a job was "funny", and a seminal part of my personality. My laziness was not about me at all, it was my duty, my gift to the greater group of friends. My unemployment was the rock that everyone was able to stand upon, and laugh at, and tickle, and smell warmly. Apparently me not having any money or any evidence of employment is not such a laugh riot to my mom and dad. They come from a different generation though, where jolly fat-faced men in tight cowboy suits could have giggle fits and airy duets with wise-cracking wooden puppets for the entertainment of the whole nation. Me being a bum is funny. Right?
2. In all of my time in saratoga, i only once had to go to Ruby Tuesday's, and i never had to go to Outback Steakhouse. In the past three days, i've been to both of these places. Do you know how humiliating it is asking an overweight brace-face teenager named Kimmy what the "walkabout soup o' the day" is, in public? And then you should have seen the shame on my father's face, and the pure embarassment on my mother's face, when I ordered the "Jackeroo chops". Are you proud of me yet, dad? These Jackeroo chops are delicious!
And then for dessert, when all i wanted was to have a fucking brownie, i was made to speak the phrase "Chocolate Thunder from Down Under". When it finally arrived, i didn't have the stomach to eat it.
3. BEEEEEEEEER TOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
4. I haven't seen a real woman in 3 days. I have seen a whole lot of cinemax softcore though, and although i'd never speak a critical word about skinemax, it just isn't the same. And now that i've been home and away from saratoga, I've already begun romanticize my time there into much more than it was, in terms of my sexual adventures. I've already convinced myself that i was able to hold numerous conversations with members of the opposite sex without embarassing myself or making them feel naseous.
5. The phrase "Yake it to the Yimit" doesn't mean anything to anybody around here.
6. Does anyone remember laughter?

NOTE: I'm now eating the leftover Jackeroos and the humiliation has just come back. It isn't any easier when i do it alone.

7. While back in saratoga, i was completely ignorant of the reality tv showed called "The Ultimate Fighter". This is a show where they take possibly the biggest badasses alive, ultimate octagon of pain fighters, and put them in a house so they can get to know eachother and play gin rummy at 3 in the morning and "just talk" and learn about eachothers girlfriends and their fears and their favorite cartoons and what they think about God. These people are not supposed to be social. They are not supposed to cook eachother Chicken Scarpizzi and then complain that the chicken is dry and then resort to calling eachother chickens. "Who's the chicken now, bitch?" (direct quote). They are not supposed to compete in cute little challenges involving wearing the same water floaties that i wore on my arms when I was pissing in the kiddie pool on purpose. They are supposed to be smashing through bedroom walls with their fucking heads and chewing on eachother's leg muscles. Its hard to brutally beat someone's head in after the two of you have stayed up all night imagining step by step what you would do if you were the last two people on earth, and the phrase "all you can eat ice-cream buffet" was mentioned more than once.

Those are the big ones for now. If i think of anything else, i'll post them later. For now its just me, skinemax, my jackeroos and....well that's actually it.

Strawberries and bananas, peaches and plums, these are a few of my favorite fruits.

Apples and oranges, kiwi and fudge, these are a few of my favorite fruits.

Beef steak and cube steak, and deer steak and fudge, these are a few of my favorite meats.

I know what you may be thinking:

"But wait, what of the strawberries...? Strawberries are berries and not fruit."

Was i right, was that what you were thinking?

Well that's just dick-licking delightful of you. Strawberries are fruit in my book because they fucking taste like fruit. Strawberries are not vegetables because i don't hate them, and they're not meat because you can't melt cheese on them. You could dunk them in a small amount of A-1 steak sauce, or worstechire maybe, but that's between you and your god, whatever kind of flaming queen he may be.

Here's a little bit of sound logic: Vegetables grow out of the ground, so everything that grows out of the ground is a vegetable, right? Wrong, whine-stein (nice). Zombies aren't vegetables, are they? Get in my office because your Fucking fired.

So everything that grows out of a bush is a berry, huh? Wrong again, Thomas Edible (nice). Is herpes a berry? Is impending nuclear war a berry? Is harrison ford's beef whistle a berry? Maybe a fuck-berry. (nice).

If I were to spend all day and half the evening making a special fruit cake for my old friends and maybe a few new ones (one is silver and the other's gold), I would include strawberries, peaches, pares and thin-mints. If i could get a hold of some strong herbs like cilantro or some stubble from peter jennings' face, that would make it all the more delicious. But the thing is, I can't imagine how i would get my hands on that stubble, mostly because Jennings' is no longer with us, and this whole ingredient thing is treading dangerously close to a classless, tastless, and faceless joke on the institution of "death". I don't want to be in that kind of territory, that's a big "no-fly zone" for me, because i have respect for Jennings' and more importantly i have respect for my fruitcake. This is not going to be some crass, innappropriate fruitcake, like that crass fruitcake Ted Koppel over at CBS, or as i like to call it, CBSuckmybutt-ski-koppel-ski.

I'd like to be abducted by aliens and taken to Baskin Robbins, the one down on Oviatt street next to Blockbusters. Frozen yogurt? No way! If I'm being treated to a refreshing dairy treat by new alien friends, i'm not going to worry about my calorie intake, buster! I'm going straight for the chocolate and vanilla swirl (real ice-cream, chumpy) with some caramel goooped all over it and the sprinkles (the multi-colored ones, to show my new alien friends that here at earth Baskin Robbins', we appreciate all colors and cultures). I'd eat the whole sundae with a big smile on my face so that the aliens could admire the way ice cream melts in my mouth and not in my hands, and then when i was finished i'd lead them back to their ship and say, "So long, suckers!". But not in a mean way, sort of in a good chummy pal kind of way like you would do to an old buddy who's just visited and is now going back to his life as a stand-up comedian or a kindergarten teacher or physicist. "So long, suckers!" and a thumbs up and a belly rub to remind them of the good good time we just shared at the Baskin Robbins.

And then, straight to the go-cart track, where i hope to reach high speeds and hope to avoid slicing my knee open against the sharp metal edge of the go-cart dashboard just like Mike Castro did at my 10th birthday party. We went to Fun-n-Stuff and had a blast playing video games and eating pizza and doing the batting cages and then, finally, the cherry on top, we rode the go-carts. But that prick Mike Castro had to go hot-dogging it around the track with really very little regard for his or anybody else's safety. He crashed and cut his knee up and it was bleeding all over the place and just like that, my birthday was ruined. Apparently when they promise you Fun-n-Stuff, they mean Fun-n-big bullshit hassle because your ass-head friend wants to be Dale Earnfart (nice).

One last piece of advice for tonight:

If any one ever tells you that they are a "people person", don't trust them. They're just referring to the things they like to eat, like when people say "I'm a chocolate person".

Grab her with your meat paws, Lancaster. Indeed, Doug, grab her with
your meat claws.

-James Earl Jones, from Field of Dreams

I'm a giant can of tuna, enter my meat house.

-James Earl Jones, from the film Meat Castle: The Inner Meat

meat and beef, the new vomit and shit. tonight was a lot of agains, but the candor
was burning like i had a mouth for an asshole. a lot clinks, yella thoughts, vomit,
a lot of things, Lancaster's ridiculously inflated dome-piece. Something interesting
though: the longer you look at Burt Lancaster's deformed head and neck, the more
you realize how normal we all are.

"Gotta have Romulus."
-Rainman Doug

Double Double Chunk Chip. A splattered yap master, dum dum gum slum, put your face in your brothers bum.
People warn that you're not supposed to eat bowls of ceral before your dinner, because it will spoil your appetite. I say, that's bullshit. Eat all the cereal you want. You can have your Shredded Wheat, your Product 19, your classic Total. If anyone gives you any kind of shit for eating cereal before dinner you just punch them in the neck and say "You crashed in, now you can crash the hell out" and then push them through a fucking window and add "now get the hell out" and when they finally thud you end with "This is my boatride, jacko."
And then you choose your favorite cereal food, hot cereals not included because nobody eats hot cereal unless you have DIABETES and your Wilford Brimley. And everyone respects and fears Wilford Brimley because he'll take your milk money and your hot cereal like that.
Now dance for Uncle Wilford. Dance. Another thought: I have big ears, butt not as big as Burt Lancaster's. He's got ridiculous ears, ears that would make a man split in half out of jealousy. In fact, his ears' broadness exponentially effects his victim's beings. A frail child would be disintegrated instantly at the sight of Burt Lancaster.
In fact, in 1969, a year after the film "The Swimmer," Lancaster was involved in a horrible disaster. An entire boy's school slain in an instant; Lancaster would later comment, "Those fucking kids," and then begin talking to his forearm, whom he affectionately refered to as "Carmine the Tramp."

When Burt Lancaster reached the years required for the age of 12, his curiosity bested the boy
constantly. His parents were in a fiscal sinkhole, the boy breaking his bones everyday, requiring
touted physicians hailing from 'cross the country.
His parents then donated the boy to the greyhound races. The young strapping Lancaster was
quite aptly strapped to a pole and chased by dogs night after night. But he was as nimble as he was charismatic. He would hypnotize the simple beasts by manipulating his chest hair into ice cream sandwiches and spaghetti. He took himself very seriously in the early days, especially during nights of the BIG CHESTHAIRS. The BIG CHESTHAIRS were an annual swimming, running, and arguing contest that every burly man and Burt lanccaster would compete to prove themselves as the BIG CHUNK-man. Burt almost always won the BIG CHESTHAIRS, and every little boy dreamed of someday becoming the BIG CHUNK-man like old Uncle Sonofabitch Burt, But one night, the eve of the BIG CHESTHAIRS, Burt Lancaster heard a knocking at his door. He opened it to find a group of angry and well-dressed people. They were Burt's old friends and neighbors.
"Burt. We haven't seen you in a dog's age. You're a great big joke!"
And Burt was so shocked and suprised by this that he yelled many things and clamored to the nearest mountain base and climbed up the side of it. When he reached the top of the mountain, he found a golden gate, and sunshine was everywhere he Burt looked. He ran to the gate and put his big meatpaws on it, but it wouldn't budge, and the iron made Burts hands bleed. He hugged himself for comfort and decided to climb the gate. It was easy to do. He walked into a garden and it began to pour rain. He kept walking, deeper and deeper into the garden. Soon he stopped seeing plants and flowers, and began seeing metal ropes and ghosts of his daughters playing tennis. The rain began to come down in torrents and he still found himself without pants or a shirt or a friend in the world.


Long story short, he found a house, went inside and some dike bitch gave him a dry tug-job and fixed him some warm milk and he went to sleep pretty quickly.

And that's the story of how Burt Lancaster exposed the myth of women's rights.
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