Part 1

Part 2

Previously on Blog Wars:

The screaming tumor rips its way out
of Armstrong’s skin, and slathers the entire bar, tender, Christ, Gacy, and the
three bikers included, in the biker’s vital fluids. Christ wipes some of the
gore from his face, then continues fumbling in his pockets, but no one seems to
notice. As the tumor creature continues to swell Gacy lifts his bag from the
booth and produces…

a giant bronze-skinned penis with the face of Rosalynn Carter engraved onto the circumcised tip.

And that’s when Tom Cruise wakes up.

It doesn’t happen gradually as it usually does – with the sounds of Pat Metheny slowly building from his Bose sound system as the clock strikes 10:00. This time it’s different. This time he bolts upright in a cold sweat and it is still very early. About 8:30 in the morning. As usual, he is naked, save for the black silk briefs he always wears to bed.

He sits there for a moment trying to make sense of the dream he just had. Jesus? Why would I be dreaming of Jesus? There is no Jesus. Xenu is our lord and savior, everyone knows that!

It can only mean one thing…

Quickly, he runs to one of the many bathrooms up there in his mansion on Mount Olympus. He sits on the ivory toilet and looks at himself in the large mirror right in front of it. He begins masturbating furiously while looking into his own eyes. This takes a while, but it is an important part of his morning ritual. At the moment of climax, time seems to stand still for a moment. And if you would be there, things would take on the appearance of slow motion – as his head thrashes from side to side and strands of his unbelievably perfect shoulder-length hair wave back into place. … We hold for a moment, contemplating the intensity on his beautiful face, as the rich cream of his loins explodes outward.

The satisfaction is duplicated as he is able to drop his morning turds at exactly the same time. This is how it is every morning for him and it is also the only way to release polluting thetans when you’ve reached level OPP III – AT 800XL, as he has.

After the sigh of satisfaction, he gets up and heads over to the ivory, gold-plated sink to wash his hands. He doesn’t bother wiping and he doesn’t use the bidet (also ivory with bronze spigots).
He installed the bidet specially for Kate to use on her lonely nights, which
are several. Right now though, she is not in town. She’s off somewhere
else getting her fingers fixed or something.

Tom Cruise has no need to clean his anus. There is no need for this because The Turds of Cruise are two jet black, shiny, solid spheres the size of golf balls, with the consistency and texture of marble. They leave no residue as they shoot out of his anal cavity. And he can go about his day with the greatest of ease. There is never any residue because he is blessed with a completely hairless asshole. And if he had hairs there, he would pluck them out with tweezers every Sunday morning.

This is the definition of perfection.

After the ritual of cleansing has been completed, Cruise goes into one of his many nice kitchens, which are full of lovely and expensive appliances that he never actually uses. He only uses the blender to make breakfast for himself. This consists of a super protein shake that has a lot of protein as well as raw eggs and all this other stuff including protein. This is also what he has for lunch. But dinner is different. It’s usually something like a couple of peas or a grape or something in the center of a huge plate and with some kind of condiment (like Grey Pupon mustard and/or ketchup from an equally fancy and pointlessly expensive brand that I I can’t think of at the moment but they both taste like fucking Hellman’s or Heinz or Hunt’s so it doesn’t really matter) to decorate the plate. It takes him 15 seconds to eat dinner and he can go about his evening with the greatest of ease.


With that out of the way, he can call his good friend John Travolta. By this time, John has finished his morning jog or his walk or whatever the fuck he does every morning, who cares? He’s not Tom Cruise. And the phone call is rather brief as Cruise explains the wild dream he just had…

Neither of them can make much sense of it and they both agree that it is most likely the work of a polluting thetan that has now been suitably ejected from his body. Because when you’ve reached Level OPP III – AT 800XL, as he has, there is no need for any of the complicated procedures that require you to be put up in some weird hotel in LA and suspiciously murdered.

Their conversation eventually veers, as it must, into more important matters of life and goes something like this:

TC: But you see John, when you know, you just know. Like, this is the purpose of the objective and it is what it is because it just is and nothing else matters because that’s what it means to be. Obviously.

JT: It’s like that and that’s the way it is. Because it is like that except when it isn’t. In that case, it’s not.

And this very complicated philosophical discussion continues for several minutes. When they are finished, Cruise goes off to get dressed and begin his day.

After John Travolta hangs up the phone, he realizes something is troubling him. Wait a minute. You just know… or you definitely know? Have I actually been wrong all this time?

He is perplexed but tries to keep his cool as Kelly Preston brings him a bowl of chopped melons. With tasteless yogurt made from skim goat’s milk and sweetened with Stevia. After Travolta enjoys this feast, he asks Preston to massage his buttocks and she does so – kneading them like pizza dough with her perfectly manicured fingers.

But Travolta is still perplexed… How can he be so sure that it’s just and not definitely. It has to be definitely. Has to be.

Preston, ever the understanding wife, reassures her husband and cradles him against her bosom: Rest your head, you worry too much. It’s gonna be all right. When times get rough, you can fall back on us. Don’t give up. Please, don’t give up.

I’ve got to walk out of here. I can’t take anymore! Gonna stand on that bridge and keep my eyes down below. Whatever may come and whatever may go. That river’s flowin’ THAT RIVER’S FLOWIN’ shouts Travolta as he bolts out of the house and to the helicopter he has parked on his front lawn.

Preston watches him go with love in her eyes.

Travolta must speak to Cruise urgently and a phone call won’t do. He must stare into his eyes and know the answer to this quandary. As he flies off, in the three or four block distance that there is between their two houses, he contemplates what he will tell his friend. He will park the helicopter on Cruise’s lawn, look him straight in the eye and demand to know the truth. And, as he is bringing the helicopter in for a landing, he turns his head to the right and notices that…

To be continued in Uncle Tom’s Bloggin’ by Tom Fuchs.