"Lemme give you the 411 on jetskis buddy. They are not to be trifled with ... quite frankly they are the Michael Jackson of aquatic leisure equipment. Thrilling at first but then bad, dangerous and prone to fucking a kid right up.
My first and last experience on one was back in 1997 when I was filming The Thin Red Line down under. Malick gave us a few days off while he did some post pro editing, so Clooney and I took off for the Gold Coast in search of sun, sand and snatch.
What we got instead was blood, sweat and tears.
It started going south when we reached Surfers Paradise. Clooney was slipping it to some leathered up skank named Tracy he met at Cavill Mall who enjoyed his performance as smouldering doctor Doug Ross from TV's ER.
She really couldn't have been a day over 15, but Clooney's approach is that if there's grass on the wicket, he'll fuck it. God damn she was rough too, skin like an elephant with sunspots the size of overcoat buttons and that goosehonk Queenslander accent that could cut through Plexiglas.
Anyway, Clooney wanted to show off his moves so he rented us some jetskis. Off we set that fateful morning, out into the choppy Pacific like a trio of intrepid explorers.
Straight away Clooney was showboating, hitting the breaks with gusto, doing burnouts and spins, trying his darndest to look cool on what is essentially an overgrown scooter but with no wheels.
Unfortunately the guy has the co-ordination skills of a drunk toddler on roofies and he slipped over the handlebars, the jetski ploughing straight into Tracy and practically severing her head from her shoulders.
Neither of us could have survived the inevitable media scrutiny resulting from a 'death by misadventure' adventure with some underage Australian whoo-er, so we wrapped her body up in tarpaulin and buried her somewhere around Coolangatta."
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