WTF? Disgusting Left Wing Internet Rumors: The Excruciatingly Long and Very Ludicrous Death of Michael Savage

10/22/2014

How Online Rumors Get Started: Got one of those Facebook friends that just keeps posting "Left field" bullshit? I'm sure this ass jacket is on someone's friends list somewhere! 

The extent some will go to to feel important online is fascinating!

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The Excruciatingly Long and Very Ludicrous Death of Michael Savage (in honor of Appropriate Michael Savage's Name For Your Own Purposes Day)    by Greg Gillam    author info Michael Savage is floating in Chicago's Montrose Harbor, slowly dying by Anas undulata (yellow-billed duck) and Anas rubripes (black duck). They peck and peck, tearing off tiny bits of his flesh as he issues an invective filled protest in a quiet whine. The most bizarre aspect of this scene is not his absurd, painful demise, but the softness of his voice. "No, oh shit, no," he mutters, eyes filling with tears, "Eric you bastard..." He refers to Eric Sorenson, head of MSNBC programming, who pushed him off a yacht during a 4th of July cruise. The yacht is the Manifest Dipsomania. The merry group on the MD was returning from a trip to Indiana, where they picked up fireworks. Not that the legality would concern them. Their pyrotechnics have been approved by Donald Rumsfeld, because any display will be part of Operation Tribute to Freedom. Michael Savage is dressed in baggy swim trunks and a brown fedora, once cocked in an attempt at Indiana Jones style bravado, now soaked and matted to his head. He sport a now tattered US flag t-shirt, the type where the flag pattern curves inwards, because the makers know their average customer has a gut. The slogan has been rendered illegible, but it reads THESE COLORS DON'T RUN. Seeing this, a fellow passenger quipped, "Looks like these colors don't walk from the lawn chair to the beer cooler without getting winded." Which prompted a screaming fit from Savage. He stood at the prow, haranguing the entire party. Sorenson approached him with arms outstretched, intending to soothe the low-rated telepundit, but then thought "fuck it" and shoved him over the rail. The boat ran over Savage, cracking his skull in a quasi-keelhauling. The propeller raked his back. Now this rotund man, wholly undistinguished save the beard fragments he wears to give his chubby face form, floats in the dark lake waters in an even darker cloud of his own blood. When the sun hits it in a certain way it glitters red. An avowed herbalist, Michael gives off smell like compost. The odor of fat and decaying plants is similar to the scent of pellets one finds in coin dispensers near ponds. Waterfowl love those pellets and they swarm around Savage in a blind frenzy, proving they and the shark do share a common ancestor. At first Savage gives of little shrieks as each bit of flesh is pinched and torn from his alcohol bloated body, but now he merely swears in a weak voice, indifferent, losing his grip on consciousness. What little self-awareness still flickers in his mind is consumed by self-righteous indignation. Even as he expires, Savage is incapable of reflecting on the caricature of a bigot he has become, a man so cartoonishly repellent his boss has sent him to his death without a tinge of remorse, as if Savage were not a human being, just a bad talk show to be switched off. Said boss has forgotten Michael, save for a vague feeling of relief like one gets after swatting a mosquito. Savage may not regret his life, but he is incapable of mustering much of a will to survive either. He is exhausted, haven spent so much energy spewing such phrases as "turd world nations," at all "the freaks, the cripples, the perverts and the mental defectives" he despises. Maintaining a persona so full of vitriolic propaganda, so distant from honesty and fact is a hard task, and for such small stakes. As his life ebbs away, precious bodily fluids mixing with the duck guano filled water, he can feel nothing but disappointment. The quacks sound near to snarls to him. For this he spent so many years as an academic? Such a pathetic end, acting out a lesser known and clichéd metaphor. Is this not a more graphic, and lethal, representation of what has already befallen him? Every time he vomited another monologue of half-baked hate into the mic, did it not peck at his soul? At lucid moments he flails at his cute feathered tormentors and wonders if there is a hell, and this is the prelude to it. Certainly he would end up in the 8th ring, where hypocrites are made to walk in lead lined cloaks. For he'd claimed to be a valid political theorist, except when being an entertainer provided protection for his attacks. Like when he called Ashleigh Banfield, "the mind slut with a big pair of glasses that they sent to Afghanistan," who "looks like she went from porno into reporting." He spewed abuse, but he could not take mockery and criticism, retaliating with frivolous lawsuits, aimed at bankrupting critics (only the poorest, of course). He filed suits despite endorsing a program to "save America" which includes "tort reform - STOP LAWYERS." He called the boycott of his sponsors illegal censorship, though the practice is fully legal and commonly used by right wing Christian groups since the days of Three's Company. In the strange lucidity from lack of blood, his brain refuses to process such grubby doublethink, and he winces at the contradiction. Michael Savage head goes under the water. He knows he has three more times before he finds relief. He longs for oblivion, an escape from the embarrassment at how easy it was to be boycotted. It did not take much for sponsors to turn their backs on him, just one email and they fled in disgust. He has no dignity left to lose, it is time to abandon his life.

Greg Gillam edits Fengi and sneers at puffery pundits, but loves him some mallards. source