Fuck Chuck Norris - A Polemic
Jeremy and Timmy sat in the bask of the computer, seeped in the glow of a thousand transistors. Jeremy poised himself in his leather recliner as if he were a monarch, a half-eaten sandwich saturated with cheese gripped in one hand, his other in dominance over the oppressed mouse. Timmy humbled before his companion on a low box-like object, less a chair and more a stack of cereal containers, and with eager eyes stared into glow. Enraptured glances followed every click, every scroll. The sun blistered through a nearby curtain, but no attention deferred away from the on-going perusal. Focus discharged towards every hyperlink, every refresh.
Off to some Geocities website awash with pictures featuring the heads of well-known actresses on the bodies of lesser-known actresses. A fine stop-off at a roadside Lycos page trying to sell Descartes thongs. Visitation cast upon the lowly urchins of ‘The Steven Seagal Appreciation Boys of
Feeling the shakes of a urologic temptation, Jeremy exited his throne and bade decadence a fine fling as the masses (Timmy) parted in applause and shameful indolence. Once the individual exodus was over, Timmy took his chance and snuck sneakily into the king’s quarters. In one great leap he flew over the AOL disc lying on the floor and annexed himself to the fantastic and gothic overtures of the throne. “Tell me dear computer,” he pondered aloud, “would one be deemed cheeky were one to dare to ask of such a fine creation as yourself to take thee to the nearest page where one could gaze at a ginger beard and ginger kicks?”
Timmy stared at the computer for several seconds before dispatching his arm toward the mouse. With clicks brought Google, with Google brought cultism, with cultism brought woe and dementia. There sat Timmy, no more than fifteen years in age demographics, a future wife, a future gleaming with the fresh shells of hope, a future amok with the joyous and the fulfilment, brightness and potential gusting in his pupils, there he sat on the ‘Top 100 Facts of Chuck Norris’ webpage.
With the room shaking of Egyptian-themed strings and needless raw lust, Jeremy emerged at the entrance. His countenance had been usurped by sheer terror as writhing morsels of libido coalesced with his pores in a steaming mass of coitus. Timmy attempted in the tiny crack of time between arrival and retribution, to brave the steep cubic parameters of the back button. But his undertaking proved too late, as before that click made the half-millimetre dive down to sanctity, a riotous Jeremy jettisoned his half-mangled body directly into the ambit of Timmy and computer.
The resulting collision mauled itself into the framework of the house, it oozed treachery and reprisal in a mound of gelatinous flesh. Parts of the computer monitor sporadically flickered showcasing Timmy’s contorted facial expressions, while Jeremy’s once-energetic limbs sparked in unison with the coruscating keyboard. Pain and despair diffused onto the carpet as nature’s newest monstrosity slowly extinguished its affliction of a life.
This is just one example of the drawbacks to the recent Chuck Norris revival. Hours and days are spent by adolescents philosophising the geometric certainties innate in Norris’ biceps. Little are they aware of the dangers such an activity can brew, young Timmy was certainly ignorant. Nothing good can materialize from the sort of kitsch respect now bestowed on Norris, his ginger beard brings with it no promise of sanctuary. A recent
So c’mon people, wise up. Norris is no figurehead, no natural idol, no glorified spectre. The reification of his silly beard, stupid movies and idiotic posture must end here. And in the end, we all know that Jeff Fahey is better!