Most people underestimate themselves. If you live long enough, like me (3438), you begin to notice The Pattern: some are naturally more energetic than others, and vice versa. The amount of lazy people in this world is what causes so many problems, not good or evil or even genuine human error by people engaged in a job of work or criminality. The blood that’s spilled and the trauma incurred is mostly caused by the indifference and inaction of those in the vicinity, those that could’ve done something about it. It’s usually someone you know, they say. We know this. You know this. The call is coming from inside the house.
I’m sitting in a room. David Fincher and Quentin Tarantino (screenwriter) are here with me. There’s no one else in the room. Without getting graphic, I’ll say there was a couch involved. But they didn’t do anything to me, they were mostly just measuring me for costumes and making jokes about how I’d look cooked in a “steak dinner with cock.” Not too cool, but they didn’t rape me; “chicken” jokes are the #MeToo of birds, and it’s the worst we have to put up with, other than never-ending paranoia about being smuggled, picked up, and thrown into an air fryer like so many fallen brothers and sisters in the bird community.
It’s because we’re tasty. Jealous…
Mr. Fincher and Mr. Tarantino think I’m overpowering the lead (Brad Pitt) and they’re talking about replacing me—only problem is Fincher has already shot 11,307 takes with me in it, and none of the other actors want to do a re-shoot. Because of my “sudden, disturbing” movements, it’s not even possible to take me out with CGI. “You literally ruined my fucking movie, you chicken.” I pointed out his incorrect use of the word “literally” and went into a defensive position, flashing my spur claw as he foamed at the mouth. Mr. Tarantino shook his head, got up, and left. He had better things to do. I hope Uma Thurman is doing well.
But Mr. Fincher wouldn’t stop foaming, even after Mr. Tarantino left. It’s amazing what people will put up with from others just for talent. I’ll admit I’m guilty of this, because I’d stay in a room for another 12 hours with a foaming Fincher because I fucking love Fight Club. Eventually he got up and we started talking about Katharine Ross and cinematic technique and The Graduate. I’m a huge movie fan and none of you know it. We agreed to continue working together only if I joined him in the future on a project—then, I could “simmer down” during the making of this Once Upon a Time in Hollywood sequel.
And then we’re back on the boat. Cliff Booth’s wife has been cut in half by the speargun. We do 90 takes of her screaming in agony and she literally falls apart (I used it correctly there). We did another 75 of me “rooster walking” around her body. I felt like a movie star. I am a movie star. I’m going to be on Netflix next year.
This… is getting… CRAZY!!!
But now Mr. Fincher is foaming at the mouth again. Why? “I’ve never been so happy.” Pray tell? “This is the best looking fake blood I’ve ever seen. Incredible. Amazing.” Directors are all the same: disgusting.
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