Steven Seagal's Life Like Bad Steven Seagal Movie

ews just keeps getting better and better for fans of the bizarre and absurd. Friday allegations were made that "actor" Steven Seagal, famous for his chubby-flanked kicking and limp ponytail in horrible action movies, is linked to a private investigator who alleges Seagal hired him to terrorize a reporter.

The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balcony. Instead, the actor paid the money.

Private investigator Anthony Pellicano was allegedly hired by Seagal to scare Busch away from writing her articles about the extortion. Police reports say in June the show biz reporter found a dead fish, a rose, and a note saying "Stop!" on the hood of her smashed car windshield. The monosyllabic note initially led police to suspect Seagal's involvement, but the combination of the dead fish and the rose was just slightly more imaginative than anything that appeared in his films, leading investigators to believe Seagal's involvement was more hands-off.

Just after the incident, Busch was approached by two men and told to stop writing articles about Steven Seagal. Had Seagal not been the perpetrator, and been in the car, and had the whole thing been one of his movies, he likely would have gotten out of the car, leaped upon the hood to deal out a series of bone-splitting kicks before flipping through the air to land behind the larger villain, bending his arm back and forcing him into the car's hood, warning him not to mess with the lady again.

Further, had this been a Steven Seagal movie, the police force would have been under the power of the corrupt Hollywood star/villain—Seagal, in this case—and seeking their help against the threatening would have been fruitless for the victim. However, the victim did go to the police in this case, and Seagal's alleged henchmen were arrested and charged with the incidents. Seagal has yet to be charged, but a paper trail and witness accounts may put Seagal behind bars yet, this time for a crime he did commit.

In the private investigator Pellicano's office, police found a cache of plastic explosive, a detonating cord and blasting cap, two grenades, 15 to 20 bundles of cash bearing $10,000 wrappers and a number of pieces of jewelry—i.e., things you might find in the hideout of the lead henchman in any Steven Seagal movie. Had the police not intercepted Pellicano and his hired goon, according to initial statements, plans were in place to blow up Busch's car, something that would have sent movie-Seagal out in the night, angrily breaking into the top boss's house—his own, in this case—to deliver the final, fatal beating that ended the movie.

In the real world, however, Seagal waits patiently for his court date, when his lawyer will argue fine points and details of testimony to discredit Pellicano's claims of direct requests from Seagal that initiated his actions. There is likely to be little kicking and punching, and Seagal will be referred to as Steven or Mr. Seagal instead of "Jack," "John," or "Mason Storm."

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I'm here to talk to you tonight, to tell you that this bogus shit has gone on long enough. You know what I'm going to say, don't you? Well you're wrong, this isn't about turkey thermometers and how come they don't work for people too. This is about some serious shit this time, no foolin'. Tonight I'm here to talk about Nostradamus.

Now I hear a lot of people going on about how great this guy was and how he saw into the future and all that. Well I'm calling his bluff. Let's hear him stand up and defend himself if he don't like it. That's what I thought.

Historical fact proves that Nostradamus was a punk-assed bitch. It's true, look it up yourself.

I mean, name for me one of his predictions that actually came true. Yeah yeah, I know you're going to go on about how he predicted world war two and all that shit, well I don't buy it. Who did he say the bad guy's name was going to be? HISLER! Nice try, Nostradumbass! Any school kid knows the dude's name was Adrian or some shit like that. Strike one for our pal Nostradamus.

I'm sure he predicted a lot of other shit that almost came true, I don't know, the thing I saw on the Discovery Channel only talked about that Hisler thing. I'm not impressed, you know? 'Cause like close only counts in horseshoes and some other lame-ass shit.

So why is everybody going on about this guy? Where's my kudos? I can bet you dollars to Dolly Parton that Nordstromsdamus never had to deal with having Amy Grant's "Baby Baby" and the disco version of Beethoven's fifth symphony stuck in his head at the same time. That's some real triumph in the face of advertising if you ask me.

You want some real predictions for the future? Fifty years from now, I bet they'll be beaming up commercials onto clouds and the sky, we'll all have those X-files chip thingies in our necks and easily impressed folks will still be going on about Nostrildamus while they hum "Baby Baby" under their breath. And you can quote me on that.

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Talk about your shitty weekends. I've heard of Tijuana coke mule vacations that went better than this. What can go wrong at a parade, right? Try everything.

It all started out well enough. Nice day, sun's out, chicks in majorette outfits, right? Sweet. Couple of brewskies with the guys, taking in the sights. Families are out with their kids, which is always a sweet reminder that you're not saddled with any little snot goblins of your own. Old people there too, reminding you how great it is not to be them. Could have been the perfect day. Then this fucking clown shows up and it all goes to hell.

For the record: Sure, I was making fun of his poofy pink hair and all that, but ain't those dudes supposed to be all jolly and shit? Not this guy. As soon as I started clowning on his tired purple dot pants, that freakshow flew into a berserk clown rage. That dude went all postal clown on my ass. I'm telling you, this was one clown who wasn't secure in his sexuality.

It's not like I've never had my ass kicked before. Meter maids, mailmen, Tommy Frithy's auntie May—they all know how to bring it. But this clown was something different. Normally when I'm getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit.

I'd be at the pearly gates right now, explaining to Saint Peter why I had a big floppy shoe stuck up my ass if it weren't for that ice cream truck that rolled up on Mr. Clown right as he was about to take his belt off. Thank God that clown had a weakness for Dilly bars, that's all I can say. While he was two-fisting those motherfuckers like some kind of refugee fresh out of an ice creamless desert, I managed to drag my broken ass over to an open manhole and flop down inside. By the time he realized where I'd gone it was too late—no way was he going to risk getting his big pink afro-wig wet down in that sewer.

And by the way, thanks for standing up for me, guys. I don't know what was worse, having a big overweight clown miming anal intercourse with my limp, bleeding body in the middle of the street, or having to hear you guys cracking up and making catcalls the whole time. I might have even forgiven that indignity if you guys hadn't taken the clown out for drinks afterwards. I guess I know what kind of friends I've got. The "for shit" variety.

And to add insult to injury and total humiliation, now the city's suing my ass for ruining the parade. And I keep getting letters from some jackass who says his kid is afraid of clowns now, thanks to me. But you won't believe the fucking topper of them all. That fucking clown himself sent me a scary-assed postcard the other day, with a menacing picture of himself on the front and a smear of my own blood on the back.

When I find out which one of you jokers gave him my address, you're gonna taste my cane, bitch.

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