The Redistribution Of Michael Moore’s Wealth


Apparently less isn’t Moore when it comes to Michael Moore’s wealth.

The corpulent filmmaker and his wife of a number of years—something Moore—were recently granted a divorce. I can’t tell you much about that, but I can tell you this: He’s as big as Rhode Island.

If the usual “irreconcilable differences” were cited, it was probably because one’s the size of a small municipality and one isn’t.

The court proceedings were allegedly interrupted when the bailiff tripped over Moore’s wheelbarrow of snacks he brought along.

It’s hard to put a price on agitprop, but lawyers are still haggling over who gets the warehouse full of Cheetos.

The plump, strident lovebirds are divvying up the KEEP OUR GATED COMMUNITY WEIRD bumper stickers.

The Moores own several lavish homes, but it’s said Mr. Moore spends as much time as possible in Hershey, Pennsylvania, for some reason.

Someone needs to tell the portly provocateur and vocal critic of Nike and General Motors (but not the makers of Milk Duds) that when the Founding Fathers guaranteed us freedom of speech, they didn’t mean with our mouths full.

He was critical of GE until he realized they make refrigerators.

His films reportedly rail against injustice. Because injustice isn’t cream-filled?

He rejects conservative values. Pour some gravy on a Republican and see what happens.

He supports gay marriage because it means more free cake.

He supports illegal immigrants in this country, feeling the more people here who know how to make a Mexi-Melt, the better. Why not turn The Alamo into a cantina while we’re at it?

His Heftiness is quick to call white men “stupid,” yet most of us are smart enough to avoid needing gastric-bypass surgery.

He has the whitest audience since Lawrence Welk or Bobby Vee anyway. And do we go around calling him “stupid beached whale?” Or “gelatinous white blob?”

He brings new meaning to the term “fat douche.”

Dismissive of religion, he’s the first in line when a church bake sale is held to raise money for some plaster of Paris cherubim or seraphim.

Do as I say, not what I eat.

Remember when Rufus Thomas sang, “Ain’t gonna bump no more with no big fat woman?”

That goes double for doing The Bump with Michael Moore.

He claims to care so much about the poor but is secretly jealous and resentful when the government gives them cheese.

He claims to care so much about “the people,” yet woe to those “people” who get in the way of his wheelbarrow at the food co-op.

Put a cowcatcher on that thing already.

He turns his nose up at the wholesome America of “Mom and apple pie.”

Well, “Mom” anyway.

He embraces a socialist agenda—or tries to, but his enormous gut gets in the way.

Do some sit-ups while you propagandize.

Some consider him a lefty wackadoo while others feel he has both feet planted firmly on the ground.

No one, least of all him, has seen his feet since the late fifties.