Much like the Great Wall of China, Ben Hale's aura is visible from space.
Professional athletes no longer use performance-enhancing drugs. They just stand in Ben Hale's presence and after a couple of minutes they are stronger and more self-confident.
Ben Hale invented the taco salad. Then he reinvented it.
Dos Equis wanted to hire him for an ad campaign, but he was too busy actually being interesting somewhere.
Michael Jordan wants to be Ben Hale when he grows up.
And on February 26th of the two thousand and ninth year of Our Lord (surprisingly, not Ben Hale) this wunderkind, this cadillac of men, deigned to read a recent prose work of his named "The Fat Artist" at Public Space One in Iowa City, on the planet of Earth. When the people heard this news, they gathered in eager anticipation. How could they know what they were to hear? How could any of us know? Such mellifluous language, in the sublime movements of its text and at times raising to the dissonance of waves that break on Ilian shores, and when the tears of the people had dried they knew they had taken knowledge onto their souls, and were happy.