Sex Detective vs Oprahland, Level Three (Mob Attack!)

After fucking Dr Laura into submission, then using a mirror-finish shield to deal with Jenny McCarthy like the gorgon she is, I reloaded my Hate-gun and ventured deeper into the Pit of Oprah, trying in vain to block out the wailing choir of souls that had already been harvested by the Dark Queen. 

Hate-gun, not to be confused with my much larger Love-gun.

Time was against me now, so I made haste, pausing only to lob a satchel of Irony Grenades into her Dungeon of Fad Diets and set fire to the Library of Bullshit Survival Stories.  Unfortunately her fiend-hounds caught my scent and just as I clambered up the Moral High Ground of Patronising Rhetoric I realised I was surrounded.  The demon beasts charged in from all directions, baying inspirational gibberish and motivational chants.  Like all demons they sought to plague me with doubt and deceit, eager to feast upon my soul.

Dr Oz Mehmet, resident heart surgeon, ready to tell you how to be healthy and live forever, even though he's a surgeon, and not a diagnotician or even a dietician.  Also promotes dodgy alternative crap.  But his biggest douchey magic power is to wear surgical scrubs on national television for no practical or relevant reason whatsoever.  You know how race car drivers don't wear their helmets and fire suits when interviewed?  The opposite of that.  It's like Oz is afraid people might forget what his day job is if he doesn't provide a constant visual cue.  He might be good with the heart stuff, but he's gonna need the world's greatest proctologist once the toe of my boot is finished with him.

 Deepak fucking Chopra, the resident... I dunno... sciencey sorcerer?  Keeps trying to transmute Eastern mysticism into Western science, as if quantum mechanics and meta-physics some how mean the same thing.  Has the psychic power to cause migraines within actual scientists whenever he bastardises their terminology for the sake of selling another book about spiritual molecules or whatever.  Believes that the mind creates and controls the brain, and tried to subdue me with an Incantation of Inner Peace.  I beat him to the draw, though, casting my own spell: a Summoning of Fist into his balls.  Transcend that, you guru fuck.

Dr Brian Weiss, uses Past Life Regression to make people overcome fears by taking them back to a former life.  Waving his hands around and convincing idiots that they used to be someone else never gets old.  Using the kind of imaginary time travel usually reserved for five year olds after a sugar binge, Brian can take you back to a purer, calmer version of yourself from olden times.  Of course he tried that shit on me, but unfortunately it turns out that in my past life I was a serial prison rapist with a vicious taste for ageing quacks.

This guy?  Seriously?  How many ex-pats do you know who moved to the US to enhance their celebrity status and who didn't turn into a giant douche?  Second tier Aussie personalities like Curtis Stone here always end up being used like novelty condoms by US networks.

Equally worthy of your attention is one of Curtis's apparently famous sandwiches that was entered into Oprah's first sandwich showdown.  If you're wondering how long a midday entertainment talk show has to run before 'vaguely bread-related sandwich competition' becomes your drawcard, the answer is 'twenty-four and a half years'.
Curtis came charging at me waving this monstrosity like a burning torch.  But this wasn't the first time someone had tried attacking me with what I can only presume to be a Mouldy Camel Semen Yiros.  Poor cunt was bleeding hommus by the time my punching arm got tired.

Every malefactorial monarch has a twisted, insane yet cringe-worthy court jester, and Oprah is no exception.  Tommy boy is pretty much her gimp, occasionally released from his cell to remind a horrified audience of the sanity rift between common folk and and famous brats.  Sure, he's a 7th Level Scientologist/13th Level Cleric or something in the space-ghost cult he belongs to, but in Oprahland he's prince of the freakshow.  Tom's greatest fear is psychiatry.  He seriously hates that stuff, which is a shame because mental health professionals love the bottomless material he provides them every time he opens his mouth.  Blowing a handful of crushed-up Prozac into his goofy, childish face was enough to send him screaming like the little Xenu-sucking bitch he is.

By this time I was knackered, covered in the blood, tears and seminal fluid of my enemies.  But the main event was still ahead of me.  From my vantage point I could see the entrance to the Queen's Cavern, a cave mouth the looked and smelled suspiciously like a giant, rocky menopausal vagina prepped for a geological pap smear.  I'm not very subtle when it comes to subtext, I'm afraid.  No matter, it was time to face the final challenge...