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The Heroes Issue

American Hero

Michael Moore is magical.

Drawing by Brian Degraw

After watching timeless classics like Roger and Me, Bowling for Columbine, and Stupid White Men (is that a movie yet?), one thing becomes painfully obvious to my swelling heart: Michael Moore is magical. He is a blessed angel who came out of the skies and brought to us a kind of chubby justice that only the little guy can bring. No wonder cherubs like Susan Sarandon, Martin Sheen, and (probably) Sean Penn worship the ground he walks on. He’s a Greek god. Sure, there are the negative creeps out there who point out silly inaccuracies like: the bank doesn’t actually give out guns like that, the chairman of GM doesn’t even work in that building, and that company makes satellites, not bombs. But as the glorious gift-giver himself pointed out, “I am a satirist; my job is not to pinpoint facts exactly but to make people laugh.” And laugh we do. We laugh and cry and think about society until our family is pulled together into a tight unit of love and all the corporations crumble around us. He empowers you and me beyond belief. When what’s-her-name announced on Leno that Michael Moore was her hero, most of us stood up on our beds and said “YEAH!” You know why? Because Michael Moore is supersmart and he makes fun of jerks like Southerners (can you believe how funny they talk!) and Charlton Heston (ha ha! He’s old) and other stupid-idiot stupid-heads. One day I hope that I can go to his $1.2 million apartment in Manhattan and just walk in and go, “Michael, you are so amazing I want to eat your shit while you make love to me” and he would put down his copy of AdBusters and walk over (in the nude) and just lie on top of me with his buttery gray penis twitching towards my loins. Mmmm, then I’d get pregnant and have a beautiful red baby that sings instead of cries. Its shit would come out in gold balls that we would then give to the working class and various new schools that don’t use patriarchal marking systems. Then, one day, we’d die together, smiling, with our bodies intertwangled so intricately they kind of spelled out the word “paradise.”