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The time Charlie Bronson and I locked horns.

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

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


Charles Bronson. The man had skin like a turtle.

Recently I was waiting outside the Paramount casting studios, basking in the spectacular Hollywood sun while allowing those around me to bask in my general glory.

My agent had contacted me via prayer / fax that morning, begging me to attend a meeting whereby the humble producers had requested the honor of my presence. I am a generous man. I am willing (in fleeting moments of kindness) to share the winning glow of Michael McMichael III with the masses.

You see, such is the magnitude of my overwhelming success in this business that I attract other actors like months to a rather dazzling (not to mention incredibly sexy) flame. Such was the scale of this attraction that an entire queue of wannabe performers had formed. While many claimed they were here for an “audition” I knew the truth. They were here for me – and yes, you can bet your ass they begged for my autograph.

While waiting outside, trying to defend myself from the many attempts to grope my epic manhood, I decided to pass time by reading the latest in my legendary book collection – a muse entertainingly entitled “Bronson's Loose! - The Making Of The Death Wish Films.” As I glanced through the book’s many fabulous pages, I was reminded of a time many years ago when two true legends of Hollywood met face to face. Prepare to be dazzled, people!

I remember once talking to Charlie at some glitzy Hollywood champagne party. Lesser mortals tend to rely on such crutches as invites to attend such gatherings, but not I. Michael McMichael III needs no invitation. While the riff raff of Hollywood stood outside clamouring for entry, only I had the supreme intelligence to make a classic (albeit unorthodox) entrance through the sewers and up through the kitchen. The very fact that I would allow the hired help the glory of witnessing (not to mention smelling) my presence is further glowing testament to what a classy guy I am.

Being of similar Hollywood stature, Lord Bronson also had his own ways of making people notice him. You see, Charlie (as always) was the center of attention with a spectacular party trick where he breaks steel girders with his head. Having tired of the girders, Bronson then started homicidally dispatching the kitchen staff just to prove he could. He used one lucky bus-boy’s spine to comb his hair with – it was all rather fabulous. Veterans like myself and the late Bronson know how to show people a good time.

However, that's when his eyes latched onto me and I knew instantly I was in the shit. Bear in mind the following is what one glass of champagne could do to the man. Just one glass. He walks over to me with that genocidal look in his eye and immediately my balls retreat back into my body like frantic squirrels hibernating for winter. His speech was slurred, his fists were clenched, and he had the partially decomposed remains of a French waitress still smeared across his face. A truly terrifying sight I'm sure you'll agree.

Instead of merely sparing me mercifully by breaking my neck like many of the other grateful party guests, he decided to talk to me. You could actually hear the soul leaving my body. My voice suddenly catapulted seven octaves higher like some kind of semi-pubescent Josh Hartnett. The damp patch on my slacks was not a coincidence. Then The Man speaks:

"I don't like your hair, you cocksucking hippie!" He demands, grabbing a second glass of champagne from a startled hostess. Immediately upon seeing this, the remaining guests dive behind furniture in fear of their lives.

"You liberal cocksucker!" He slurs, one eye pointed at my face, the other partaking in an intense stare-down with the silk curtains. "You should get a haircut like a real man, like a person with a penis! And testicles! And enough gunpowder in his sack to really take those horses to town! You should get a haircut like me! Like a true fucking action hero!" His voice rattled with the noise of Godzilla murdering the Japanese.

He then briefly moves away to urinate on a nearby plant, belching the tune to The Love Boat while dropping farts that smelled oddly of pickled eel. This was my chance, my golden opportunity to strike back at Hollywood’s most feared, unpredictable celebrity. With my nuts safely in my sainted hand, I cleared my throat and uttered the most ridiculous words ever spoken (and in Hollywood, that's saying something.)

"Bronson! Enough of your crap! I most certainly HAVE got hair like you! Just not on my head!" I declared, with all the masculine intention of a mortally wounded hamster. (Bear in mind this was in the days before God gave me a pocket rocket that could sink Iran.)

The party fell silent. Heck, the whole Eastern district of Hollywood fell silent.

I woke up three days later naked in a swap in Utah. Ever wonder why that book about him was titled "Bronson's Loose!?" Now you know.

Until next time then...

~ Michael McMichael III ~

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