PLEASE ALLOW
SYLVESTER STALLONE
A FEW WORDS ON BEHALF
OF THE POLAR BEAR.
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I know what it's like to get knocked down. And I also know that sometimes we all need a little help getting back on our feet. As we speak, a friend of mine is on the ropes. I'd like to talk to you today about an environmental problem that affects us all: the disappearance of the polar bear and his precious supply of polar-bear growth hormone (PBGH). This is an issue I care about deeply and I hope you will take me seriously, not just as an actor but as an actor who writes screenplays.
I've spent a lifetime disproving the theory that weightlifting causes muscle to move from your brain to your biceps. Just because I have the option of resting a refreshing glass of lemonade on my right pectoral when my hand gets chilly doesn't mean that I am some kind of Neanderthal. I come to you as a thoughtful and concerned American who is at great risk of shrinking by at least 120 pounds if we lose this magnificent Arctic creature. Let's set aside our differences and think about our children's future. No matter the size of your brain muscle, that feeling you get when you see a polar bear lose his icy boxing ring is a nonpartisan kind of heartbreak.
If you've caught one or more of the six Rocky movies I've written completely on my own, you know that I like to speak in metaphors. And, if you're like the critics, you might need a little help understanding how I bench-press symbolism on a regular basis. For instance, the old dog I adopt from the pound in Rocky Balboa? That dog is me. Though he's mangy and somewhat reluctant to sleep for less than 14 hours a day, the sheer amount of collagen that's been injected into his snout makes him run like there's still 15 years left, despite a total lack of feeling in the tongue, which continues to slap against his eyeball.
Allow me to let you in on another secret: I am the polar bear, and you are killing me.
Since the filming of Rocky IV in the frozen landscape of western Alaska, I have become a polar-bear enthusiast of some note. Nome in the '80s was a different time. Back then, it was perfectly acceptable to trap and kill polar bears for their gallstones. But, perhaps not surprisingly, I'm a more sophisticated taxidermist than the average actor. I also write screenplays. So it wasn't long before I was into the anterior pituitary, and even less time before I was isolating and mainlining 90-proof PBGH straight into my glutes. I can still feel the electricity of that first injection, when I raced out onto an ice floe and dunked my head into the freezing waters of the Bering Sea, only to emerge with a wriggling harp seal locked between my bloody jaws. It was that day that I like to think I became a man. It was no surprise to me that Rocky IV was such a box-office sensation.
Though my wife must Nair dense white fur from my entire body at least three times a day, the gains in muscle definition, cranium circumference, and all-around virility are unsurpassed by any kind of pantywaist mainstream growth hormone. I can now squat 700 pounds more than any polar bear or human being on record. Are you worried about side effects? I don't know, am I worried about taking my shirt off in restaurants? Let's be frank for a minute. Sometimes I run down a neighborhood dog and eat it on sight. I don't know what comes over me, but it just happens—at a rate of about two times per month. But I'm up on my deworming medications and I feel great. Actually, I just took a rhinoceros dose of PBGH before sitting down to write this eloquent article, because I've found that polar-bear juice lends me unparalleled mental focus and a keen wit.
Listen up. The polar bear is our greatest national resource. Whether you believe in fiscal conservatism or social welfare, whether you wear blue or red boxing trunks on Election Day, you need to care about preserving this planet for future generations. I am but one man. Possibly I am two men, but certainly not three. You can do so much more than I can to save my friend the polar-bear pituitary. So tell everyone you know; we must preserve the species. For, if we sustain the tremendous boon of PBGH, we can grow offensively hulking cinematic talent and sophisticated screenwriters for decades to come.
Do not rob me of this legacy.
As I finish this editorial, I am mumbling incoherently and sneering. The sneer is beyond my control, a testament to my plastic surgeon, who loves the smile and the sneer equally. But I am mumbling to you in my low-pitched way because I see that you love the polar bear as I do. And I know you will continue to fight for him.
Don't let the fake punches get you down.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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Please Allow Sylvester Stallone a Few Words on Behalf of the Polar Bear By Blair Becker
Thank You for Choosing the Hyatt Regency Purgatory By Bob Woodiwiss
Ways to Lose at Tony Hawk's Pro Skater By Owen Parsons
Bowline Variations By Scott Blaszak
Children's-Film Sequels as Imagined by Famous Directors By Rebekah Frumkin
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