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The time Angelina Jolie wanted me naked.

The self-proclaimed 'voice of Hollywood' enlightens us with another yarn from his past...

(If you don't know who Michael McMichael is, click here to find out.)

Angelina Jolie. Living proof that God has a leg fetish.

Having received so many gasping fanmails from wet, passionate females lucky enough to have read my last article, I have decided to treat you all once again.

First however I must request that the thousands of supermodels reading this stop mailing me your edible panties - I am on a diet, girls. How do you think I keep up this God-like, Herculean physique? I am an Adonis. I’m so gosh-darn manly that muggers in the street give me THEIR wallets. That said, at risk of a tsunami of fanmail and adulation so huge it could cause the internet to collapse in on itself like the face of Bob Dole, I will kindly share with you humble peasants once again.

The topic that seems to be sparking the most interest in your simple, yet well-meaning minds? My epic encounters with one Miss Angelina Jolie. “But your Michaelness!” I hear you scream, “Angelina’s married!”

In title? Yes. In reality however, her smooth, toned loins ache for yours truly; Michael McMichael III. I’m more addictive than crack, you see. I’m kind of like heroin – once I get inside you, you can never get enough of me. Are you bowing yet? Are you stunned by the sheer, eclipsing magnitude of my masculinity? You fucking should be.

It all started in a venue in South Hollywood called The Domino Lounge where I was tending bar and serving drinks to the lesser mortals that swarm there like frenzied wasps with a taste for my honey. (Why, you might ask? Worry not, I was merely biding my time there, allowing the money men at Paramount enough time to reconsider and get back to me with the inevitable $20million contract; so stunned were they of my groundbreaking performance for the role of Concerned Teacher #3.)

Suddenly in she walks, and naturally the room falls silent. She parades into the room like the very definition of the word Diva, wearing the kind of stilettos that’d put the Toronto Tower to shame. I am happy to report to you drooling peasants that the rumors are true - her legs are indeed so long that her ankles occupy a different time zone to her thighs. And yes, it is indeed true that her supple breasts are so mountainous that herds of spring goats hop merrily across their sprawling surface. Nobody places light objects near Angelina Jolie’s ample bust – so massive are they that they have developed their own gravitational orbit.

Of course, Angie was not there for a drink. Needless to say Hollywood titans like us do not order drinks. Instead, the wealthy Hollywood fat-cats simply form orderly queues, begging for the opportunity to spend thousands of dollars buying us a Martini (or as is my poison, Appletinis with a cherry on a stick.) Someone once made the mistake of simply passing Angie a glass of wine without first bowing and kissing her feet – and even had the impertinence to make eye contact. Upholding generations of Hollywood tradition, Angie did the noble thing and swiftly beat the worthless minion to death with her shoe. Had the minion been of proper Hollywood stock, he would have thanked her for the honor while she used the point of her heel to dig for oil in his crotch. But I digress.

While waiting for a battalion of servants to fetch the red carpet, Angie immediately noticed my perfect and mesmerising face and called over to me. “Michael!” she hollered (unlike you common scum, Angie and I are on first-name terms.) “It’s me, Angie!” she declared, as if a Goddess of her stature should herald such an introduction. I smiled, and immediately fifty women in the vicinity ran to the restroom to change their underwear. She floats over to me. Our eyes meet. God smiles, for indeed His work is truly done. “I thought you were amazing in that episode of ER,” she teases. “No-one will ever bring the role of Wounded Firefighter #5 to life like you.” I whispered sweet thanks into her ear, despite her stating the obvious. Her finger gently stroked mine with the erotic beauty of the mating dance of the lions of the Serengeti. The whole encounter was so hot that the liquor display cabinet behind me actually exploded into flame – not that anyone noticed, so star-struck were they with the awesome encounter unfolding before their very (unworthy) eyes.

At this moment I’d like to point out that Augograph hunters are not human – their oily skin and the strange metal contraptions they wear across their teeth are telling of this. Autograph hunters have an in-built talent of seeking out the most inappropriate time in which to pounce, begging like the filthy dogs they are for another line of unintelligible scribble for their puny notebooks. Normally these unusual and rather filthy creatures are a bane on the life of a lesser superstar. Gary Sinise, for instance, can be seen with as many as eleven autograph hunters hanging off him at any given moment. He wears them like barnacles, like monkeys on his back. Hollywood legends like Angie and yours truly Michael McMichael III rise above such inconveniences, however. When one such disgusting crustacean zoomed in on Her Holiness, a specially prepared team of FBI sharpshooters was ready on hand to dispatch this serf with a hollow-point through the eye – not because of any crimes, mind you, but for the sake of evolution. And photographs. This annoying disturbance did not breach the beauty of our moment, however, for we are well used to such minor vexations. Indeed a whole squadron of killer psycho zombie ninjas could not have spoiled our moment – not with the likes of Michael McMichael III involved.

I bet you’re jealous right now aren’t you? Of course you fucking are. It is okay to be jealous, for it is not your fault that your kind was sewn from lesser cloth. Yet the juiciest part of this engrossing yarn has not yet been spun.

Angie would later confess to me that her relationships with lesser men such as that pesky Brad Pitt and the rather contagious Billy Bob Thornton had left her jaded; so unable were these puny insects in quenching her insatiable sexual desires, that she came to me in search of Tantric Nirvana. Such is my reputation that even the Gods utter the name of Michael McMichael III in hushed tones, for fear of disturbing my legend. Tearfully she told me of her many failed relationships, her trips to spiritual gurus that failed to help her find The True Path, and the blatant fact that even such a trendy pastime as Buddhism could not quell the insatiable beast that growled between her legs. Did I step up to the plate? Is my name not Michael McMichael III? Of course I fucking did.

I will not go into further details. Suffice to say that for the next five summers she will have a smile on her face that makes Jack Nicholson’s in Batman look dull and uninspired by comparison. I’m sure you have heard the countless news reports of the various children Angelina Jolie likes to adopt. Having read this breathtaking confession from Hollywood’s finest, I raise the question: do you REALLY think those noisy little shits are adopted?

I am Michael McMichael. And my company has been your pleasure. Keep your eyes open for future instalments. Oh, and ladies – remember what I said about the edible panties, okay?

Ciao for now, darlings...

~ Michael McMichael III ~

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Click here to go back to the home page Click here to see our foolish and drunken attempts at humour Click here to read our humiliation of the worst cinematic abortions the movie industry has to offer Click here to see some of the most bizarre news the web's ever puked out

Click here to see the barrage of other crap we have lying around