WARREN BEATH

Mel Gibson hung up the phone and laughed to himself. He was a ritch man and not to be trifled with. Certainly not by a female so recently swollen with his own daughter given birth to umbilically. “I’ll knock out the rest of yer teeth,” he thought to himself. Manhood thrived under adversity. I need a real woman, he thought. “I need a jacuzzi.” He needed a steam room to release the poisons. This was no anti-semitic rant, he promised himself. This stroke-like excitement infused him with inflating gasses that promised to fill his internal shower stalls to the nozzles. It was grim business being a rich and powerful man, and an actor of his proportions. The Passion of the Christ had moved Christendom to tears, even those who had read the book. And now he had received his own message for the world and transmitted it via the medium of tabloid headlines and court reporters. He knew it would be received with derision and even with bewilderment at the incomprehensibility of the whole thing. But it did make a bizarre kind of sense to him, purged now of poisons he could regard himself more calmly. The Passion of the Christ had moved Christendom to tears, and there is no denying that it had a powerful message to those who had no time to read the book upon which the original idea had been based; ie., a super hero-like figure who descends into space and time with a message that revolutionizes the sphere of human morality and even of dietary supplementation. It is not what goes into a man’s mouth that defiles him, but what comes out of it The Fisherman had said. And now he– Mel Gibson– had advanced civilization another hair’s-breadth with a rant deftly calculated to be emblazoned across the world via the supermodel mother of his own child. And how well the cow had been chosen. It was no accident. This was better than drunk driving, or even directing an epic motion picture with the imprimatur of the Vatican. But it was after all only another day in the life of a very rich superstar.