You say you want a revolution? You sure? I mean, like, really, really sure?
Nolan’s tiny scrawny manlet public displays of social-justice PMS are balanced—in a purely fat-shaming way—by that of manatee filmmaker Michael Moore, who has yet to die of a heart attack or from choking to death on one of his chins. Moore is working on a film set to be released this September which makes the case that Donald Trump is an evil man, and only righteous millionaire fat white men who have a net worth of $50 million and live in nearly all-white enclaves are capable of generating sufficient empathy for the poor and downtrodden nonwhites who have to deal with those stupid evil wealthy white men all the time.
Moore, who has spent most of the past decade transitioning into a beanbag chair, recently appeared on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert, and it was immediately evident that both he and Colbert warmed up for the show by splitting a six-pack of liquid estrogen. They were unhappy and uncomfortable and unmanly and unfunny about Donald Trump and the fact that these are dangerous times and we need to maybe do something counter-dangerous in order to stop all that danger and all those Muslims being beheaded and all those cartel members being beheaded and even though if you want to get technical, those two groups are the ones doing most of the beheading these days, it’s the moral principle that counts.
Seriously, these idiots are a broken record. What’s worse, they’re a deaf broken record. They don’t hear how they sound.
“I see them as my children,” Moore said of the little brown babies screaming at the border that he will never meet nor help in any tangible way. What the adipose auteur fails to realize is that these children probably see him as nothing more than a sucker.
When Colbert continued to press Moore about, you know, since we have to do something, what are we gonna do, Moore said that Democrats have been “so wimpy and weak,” but now they’re all going to have to pretend that their children are being kidnapped and start freaking out over it all at the same time:
We’re not talking about political differences. We’re talking about thousands of children being kidnapped and put in jails….The only way that we’re going to stop this is eventually we’re all going to have to put our bodies on the line. You’re going to have to be willing to do this.
Putting your body on the line, Mr. Moore? How about putting it on a StairMaster instead?
Moore is a shit-talking dumbass in love with the sound of his own voice, all blubber and no meat. As Goad concludes, any civil war fought by pusillanimous blowhards like Moore and Colbert will be the shortest one in history. The funniest, too. The mental image of Moore struggling uphill in dense woods in August carrying a rifle and a fifty-pound ruck, or crouching panic-stricken in a shallow trench as bullets snap and snarl over his misshapen head and his own piss streams down his leg, would have to warm the heart of any real American, though.