BIG HAIRY NEWS EXCLUSIVE - I am undercover this week with the Occupy Wall Street protesters, reporting from Zuccotti Park in Manhattan.
Day 5 - Thursday October 27, 2011.
7:45 AM - Woke up with a splitting headache, thanks to the drum circle retards who apparently have nothing better to do this time of morning. I managed to hit one of them from my back patio with an empty rum bottle - no small feat from this distance. His cries and profuse bleeding made the morning seem a little brighter.
8:12 AM - I was too lazy to go out for breakfast, so I joined the mutants and walking dead in the free food line. This morning they were serving "homemade stone-ground granola," and while it had the consistency and weight of pea gravel, it didn't taste bad - I had like 5 servings.
9:04 AM - Walking through a maze of sleeping bags, I met a new friend named Nancy when I accidentally stepped on her face. She had come from Connecticut with her boyfriend, who ended up getting arrested for vandalizing a statue, and severely burning a girl sitting on it. We huffed some spray paint as we headed to the park's mission control area to see what was going on.
9:12 AM - Mission control was abuzz with all kinds of counterculture activity. Besides the usual doofuses droning on about their delinquent student loans or the virtues of windmills, one pinko teacher had brought his class of little kids for indoctrination, under the guise of having them showing off their Halloween outfits. I noticed one little girl dressed as Dracula was smoking a joint.
9:58 AM - Out of nowhere I experienced an ominous twinge in my lower tract. Suddenly the twinge morphed into what I'm sure the guy in Alien felt, just before that pork chop with teeth came bursting out of his guts. It suddenly became crystal clear that the 'homemade stone ground granola" had more fiber than a 200 pound bedspread, and it was racing through my lower tract like a crazed gopher. Leaving what's her name in a cloud of methane, I sprinted for my tent. As I made my way through the crowds of misguided slackers and fools, a low-hanging fog of fart testified to the granola's widespread influence. The sounds of passing gas were occasionally punctuated with muffled explosions and accompanying screams of those idiots firing up a bong or joint. Surely, this is what Hell must be like.
10:00 AM - I reached my personal porta-potty with not a moment to spare, hardly noticing the five or six naked hippies bouncing around in my bed. As I hit the launching pad, my colon was jerking like a Special Olympics cheerleader, and ignition brought enough thrust to propel an average-sized tree squirrel into low orbit, but only enough to lift me maybe two feet. I was momentarily stunned by the concussive shock in the tiny space, and I was flinging sweat like a just-bathed poodle. Finally calm prevailed, at least until I noticed some filthy hippie had stolen my toilet paper. Damn, I hate these people!
10:12 AM - I assume the muffled violence emanating from the porta-potty had scared away the hippies, as they were thankfully gone when I emerged. My 1000 count sheet was more than adequate for my immediate personal hygene needs, and after medicating myself with with a bottle of schnaps filled with Alka-Seltzers and Percocets, I took a much-needed nap.
3:22 PM - The rain woke me up. Not the sound of rain, but the rain itself. As this reality came into focus, killing hippies was all I wanted to do - at least the filthy mongrels who had stolen my tent and everything in it, save for a sheet. As I searched the park for my tent in the pouring rain, I couldn't help but notice all the hippies sporting new nylon ponchos the same color as my missing tent. I was wondering where one could get a shotgun in downtown Manhattan, as I gave up my search and looked for some kind of shelter.
4:30 PM - It's cold and raining. I'm huddled under a plastic tarp with several clueless hippie pinheads while waiting for my ride out of here. Here's ten things I learned in Zuccotti Park this week:
- The average individual here has the IQ of a tennis ball.
- The protesters' understanding of things 'financial' is pretty much limited to the act of borrowing money. The paying back part frustrates and angers them. Investing, whatever that is, is something evil people do to harm poor people.
- Ignorant hippieism is obviously a genetic defect that, like alcoholism, is handed down from the parents. There appears to be no treatment other than becoming a conservative.
- There seems to be a direct correlation between protesting and sexually transmitted diseases.
- Because they have no jobs and pot is expensive, all hippies mooch and steal stuff.
- Homemade stone-ground granola is more dangerous than it sounds.
- Most of the hippies at Zuccotti Park are too busy doing hippie things to actually protest anything.
- I hate hippies.
- I'm still thinking about this one.
- I'm still thinking about this one.
End of day 5 and end of my undercover report from Zuccotti Park, thank God.
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