Dick Acorn = Jury   

June 20, 2002

Mothra Sewage


Well well well well well - well well well.  “Ms.” Martha Stewart, you fat-faced, insider-trading toad-shaped bat!  What took you so long to be exposed as a cretinous, greedy, imposterous “domesticated” demon?  It was only a matter of time; obvious since you put one of your fat foots forward onto the public stage that you are not the cheery kitchen-bound broad of every dingbat’s and dickhead’s delight.  

Instead, one could see immediately that you are a manipulative, spoiled, conniving, meddling, egotistical, grubby bitch, lacking any socially redeeming qualities whatsoever. 

You are not “Martha Stewart” which is not your real name anyway, but instead “Mothra Sewage” a dank, horrifying, ugly, fat, and prickly-haired insect flying from the slimy underworld.  A frighteningly mean-spirited uncouth moth; an unsavory anti-butterfly.  Sure, you cast a big shadow (literally!) - but ultimately you burn to a crisp.  Too bad we can’t bring back that Joan of Arc-style blaze of glory for you, you harridan of celebrity whoredom.  Have you ever considered trussing yourself up like one of your fabled holiday stuffed roasting birds and doing a little rotisserie in your own jumbo toaster oven?   What an incredibly unpleasant and messy thought, but only too good for Mothra Sewage, purveyor of post- post-feministic ideals with a dollop of personal physical ugliness heaped on like a pile of overly watery dry-flake mashed potatoes.

It has been obvious since you put your first flabby foot forward into this world’s celebrity-sucking culture that one day, Mothra, one day you would misplace one of those hefty hooves onto your own carelessly-tossed banana peel and take a well-deserved flying fucking header.  Call this concoction “Mothra Sewage’s Banana-a-go-go.”  That time is now, and look at you squealing like the swine from which you’ve surely been spawned.  You’re the largest, surely the most annoying phony since Tammy Faye Baker, make that, an even bigger fraudly pest than that demented dame. The stench emanating from your body mass reeks of crime, haughtiness, cheapness, and squalor.  You think “Mothra Sewage,” you think “bag lady in faux glitz; absent any glamour.”  You likely make even the most incredibly expensive shoes you buy look like the plastic toy shoes you stick on some five-and-dime doll.

It doesn’t matter if you sold your Imclone stock on inside information or if your timing was pure luck.  The bottom line is, appearances are everything in your cozy little fraudulent “domestic doyenne” world – appearances are all you’re built on.  And this stock sale, by all appearances, reeks disgustedly like unrefrigerated 7-week-old goat entrails.  See what you can make of those stinking babies, you warp-minded, ham-faced sow.  Here’s praying your deserved downward spiral is as rapid as your puzzling and transparently crass ascent.  And that all things considered, you end up in the ultimate prison kitchen challenge: trying to whip up a little something that goes well with dyke-drip lesbo juice. The kind you’ll be slurping for years to come if you ever end up behind bars, where you surely belong if for no other reason than the appearance of your stock fraud, if not for your unsightly appearance itself

--Dick Acorn