Fast Food Celebrity Fist Fights

FAST FOOD CELEBRITY FIST FIGHTS

I wake up angry, like a bumble bee that has lost his honey tracking device. It was time for me to exact some revenge on the world. I have been training for this day for over six weeks, and revenge is a dish best served with a generous side of head-butts, and sweep kicks. When I was first issued the challenge from my fighting promoter, I wasn't sure what to make of all this. The letter arrived at my door in the wee hours and the premise was simple enough...seek out celebrities at local fast food establishments, challenge them to a fight, and pummel them until they cry for mercy. Firstly I wasn't sure if I could withstand five separate fights in one day, secondly I wanted to know if I would at least have some down time in between the matches in order to recover, and lastly, I wanted to know what was in it for me.

There was no looking back at this point, I had accepted the challenge, and today was the day of reckoning. I slid on my luckiest pair of underwear, these were with me when I lost my virginity, and if I was going to come out victorious I would need Lady Luck on my side. Next was my joggers, after that it was my best Affliction t-shirt. Tight enough to not allow my opponents any leverage, but still loose enough that my competition knew what they were up against. Socks you ask? Not today kids, socks will only cause me to have less traction. Lastly, I tie up my headband, I need this because I don't want sweat getting into my eyes and causing me to have any sort of blurred vision when I'm in the midst of raining down death blows from above.

I kiss my Mother goodbye and tell her that I'll be home for supper. She knows not where I'm heading, where I've been, or what my plans are for today, and that's probably a good thing. I give her my parting words and take one last look in the mirror to ensure that I look the part of a stone-cold killer. "Goodbye Mommy, I love you, don't forget to PVR The Young and the Restless for me, and I'll see you when I see you!". With that, I was out the door like a thief in the night, my first destination was only a few blocks from my house. I walked briskly so as to not burn any unnecessary energy, not a drop of fear in sight, I quietly take down a granola bar and three smokes on the walk. My body is my temple, and I want to make sure I am in peek form for round one.

Round 1) When I arrive at Arby's I can see my foe sitting enjoying his breakfast in the corner. He looks like he might be thinking about having a threesome, or perhaps becoming a celebrity judge on some show that should have never made it past the original screening phases. You might know him as Howie Mandel, but today his name has been changed to The Guy That's About to Get Fucked Up. I waste no time in issuing the challenge, "'Sup Howie, wanna brawl?" before he even has the chance to answer or swallow the bite he just took, I am all over him. I quickly land seven consecutive punches to his midsection, he's withering in pain and I don't feel bad for him. He throws one punch which I can only liken to a four year-old Girl Scout trying to swat away a fly that's been buzzing around her head. I juke left and land a savage upper-cut right on his kisser. I see his front teeth go flying out of his mouth like tiny bloody chicklets that just got ejected from a party they weren't invited to. He's almost done now. He let's out a sound that reminded me of Death coughing up a chicken bone. I finish him off with three straight kicks to the groin and some words for him to reflect on "Thanks Howard, that was fun, next time perhaps you should think twice about growing a fucking soul patch. Seriously, those things make you look fucking ridiculous, and if I catch you with one of those again, next time, I might not be so gracious". On to the next one...

Round 2) When I roll up to Burger King my mind is tempted to go right up to the cashier and order myself a garbage bag full of Junior Whoppers. I just love these things so much more than their larger counterparts. I am not fortunate enough to have time to burn however. I can see her standing there, filling up her drink at the self-serve. It's hip-hop superstar Nikki Minaj, and I am not the least bit impressed. "Hey Nikki, you big, stupid waste of human flesh!" I say as I land a perfectly executed crescent kick to the bridge of the nose. I can barely make out what she said in response, partially because when you crack someone really good on the nose, they are stunned, but mostly because she was speaking with the usage of an auto-tune. I get on top of her in the mounted position, it's immediately apparent that her full-guard is not going to save her from the pain that she's about to endure. As I start landing a plethora of elbows to the face, I remind her of the fact that I think she's a bad influence on the youth of today, and that I personally feel like every time she opens up her mouth, an angel loses its wings. She's just about had enough now. Her publicist is standing by in tears, frantically waving a white flag as a sign of submission, I give Nikki one last pile-driver before I walk over to the flag-waver..."Why don't you put that flag away before you get hurt" I say as I reach into her take-out bag and grab as many french fries as I could possibly hold in one hand, and stuff them into my mouth, swallowing the entire lot without so much as a single chewing motion. On to the next one...

Round 3) When I skip into Subway I notice my third victim ordering something off of the five dollar foot-long menu. Little does Pat Sajack know, where's going, he won't be needing a cold-cut trio. I quickly secure both of my hands around his waste and pull off the most immaculate belly-to-back suplex. "Well Patty Boy, I've had just about enough of your smug attitude and boyish good looks for one lifetime!" I tell him, he's barely coherent at this point, still reeling from the attack that has just transpired. I take a bite of his sub and launch a perfect throw that lands straight in the face of the unsuspecting 'Sandwich Artist'. "That one is for Vanna White!" I proclaim. Just as he is making his way back up to his feet, I give him a massive lariat that puts him right back on his behind. I walk over to the Coca-Cola vending machine and tip it over, so that it lands directly on top of him, I can hear other patrons crying like a bunch of sissy cry-babies and trying to call the police, and I let them know why this all happened. "Put your phones away people, nothing to see here, you all know that Jeopardy is better than Wheel of Fortune and Pat was just an unfortunate example that needed to be set". On to the next one...

Round 4) When I Moonwalk into Jack in the Box I can tell I'm starting to get a bit tired. On the plus side, I have taken out three of five adversaries and have not a single scratch or bruise to speak of. On the negative side, I have committed a series of completely unprovoked, viciously heinous attacks, and the authorities are probably on my trail as we speak. There's no time to waste. At first I am a bit shocked to find Madonna at a Jack in the Box, she's probably a vegan, and I don't immediately think of fast food joints when it comes to having a tasty salad. I quickly slap the food tray out of her hands and apply the sleeper hold, just as she is about to go off into la-la-land, I release my python-like grip around her neck, allowing her to plummet to the floor. I take off her yoga shoes and start hitting her over the back with them. I then give her an Indian-rubber burn on her arm that will surely leave a mark. "Perhaps you'll think twice about releasing another album and charging over $250 for a ticket to watch you shit-the-bed on stage, won't you now Madge?" I taunt her. She's just about had enough. She tries to kick me in the face with her last ounce of strength, but I juke right and punch her square in her 50 year old vagina. That pretty much does it. Before I start to walk away, I borrow a pen and a piece of paper from the cashier, I write down a fake phone number, and then I place it gently over her mouth. "Here's a phone number Material Girl, when you recover from this pummeling, you should call someone that gives a fuck!". The cashier gives me back-to-back high-fives, and then he hands me a free coupon for a half-priced meal with the purchase of another similarly priced menu item. I give him a wink and invite him to my birthday party. On to the next one...

Round 5) Just as I am about to enter the famed Golden Arches, my cellphone goes off, and it's my fight promoter checking on my daily progress. I tell him that I am cruising along nicely, and then I abruptly hang up on him because I only have an evening and weekends plan, and I'm not about to get charged for any additional minutes. When I walk in, I immediately realize that my next task will not be nearly as simple as the first four. Brett Favre (pronounced Fuuuuurve) looks like he's waiting for me. Who has tipped him off? How strong is he now that he's no longer training? Why is he wearing full-on football pads in the middle of MacDonald's? What is his preferred fighting style? Did he really send a picture of his cock to that Jets employee? If I 'retire' him, will he actually stay 'retired'? These questions raced through my mind as he glared at me. I pretended to not be scared but I was, after all, he was a professional athlete, and I was just a cashier at Future Shop. I ran in and tried to land the first blow but it was to no avail, he dodged my initial punch, and threw me face-first into a wall. "You're gonna have to do better than that you fucking Maggot!" he says. My blood is boiling at this point. Blood is streaming down my face but I am not about to throw in the towel. I rush him for a second time with even worse results, he grabs my by the neck and throws me on the ground, he lands at least 15 punches to the belly and I am winded, if not near-death. This is when he makes one fatal error, he stands up to gloat and sign autographs, thinking that I am done. I hit him over the head with a nearby fire extinguisher. I give him one neck-stomp and an a certified vicious eye-gouge. I karate chop him thirty three times in the solar-plexes and he is now on the ropes. "Well Brett old pal, you put up a decent fight, I'll give you that much, but clearly you are no match for me, say hello to Satan for me!" and with that parting gift I rip into his stupid face with enough forearm shivers to send any man to the emergency room. My final foe is down for the count. I am victorious once again. I have climbed the tip of the mountain and gave it my all. I will most likely be prosecuted for this, but if you ask me if it was worth it, I'll tell you that it was and I'll mean it.

In the days and weeks to come, I have given up my fighting ways, never again to embark on another mission to beat-up the most dangerous celebrities that the world has ever known. When I look back and reflect on the trail of tears, bloodshed, and broken spleens; I am left with a warm heart and a craving for some Freedom Fries. The moral of the story is: Don't mess with the man on a tight budget, you just might not like what you get in return.