"Wally, I know we haven't spoken in a little while now. I've been too busy kicking ass and taking names with those snaggletoothed limeys and their imperialist claim on the Malvinas.
It ain't the 19th century, England, and you sure as shit ain't Lord Nelson, so you might as well direct that energy into fixing your country's cocksmoking Flintstones-era infrastructure before you start trying to lord it over others like King fuckin' George VI.
But enough of that. I'm here now to drop some jewels like a burglar with Parkinson's. Time for another Sean Penn tale from the trenches of Hollywood. Let's go.
The year was 1998. Cher was riding high in the charts with that tweeked out vocoder shit and I was filming Hurly Burly with my good friends Chazz Palminteri and Gary Shandling. Unfortunately I was sharing top billing with that overrated wannabe Brit and closeted fruit cup K-Space.
That hammy fuck has always been a fly in the ointment you know, a true party pooper and buzzkill. Spacey also has some serious issues with women, most notable of which is that he doesn't like penetrating them.
Now I'm no reactionary bigot. Love of any kind in these crazy end days of ours should be embraced, even if its of the homme sur homme persuasion. Nobody deserves to be gunned down for their sexual orientation by some disgruntled public servant hopped up on Twinkies and self-loathing. Yeah that was a reference to Harvey Milk.
But that limpwristed cockjockey Spaceman took it one step too far. He started blaming everything that went wrong on set with the lovely Anna Paquin, calling her a she-Devil, shouting at her with his trademark pomp and bluster. One time there was a mix-up with the catering crew, and it looked like he was about to get all Ike Turner on Paquin like white on rice.
It ain't the 19th century, England, and you sure as shit ain't Lord Nelson, so you might as well direct that energy into fixing your country's cocksmoking Flintstones-era infrastructure before you start trying to lord it over others like King fuckin' George VI.
But enough of that. I'm here now to drop some jewels like a burglar with Parkinson's. Time for another Sean Penn tale from the trenches of Hollywood. Let's go.
The year was 1998. Cher was riding high in the charts with that tweeked out vocoder shit and I was filming Hurly Burly with my good friends Chazz Palminteri and Gary Shandling. Unfortunately I was sharing top billing with that overrated wannabe Brit and closeted fruit cup K-Space.
That hammy fuck has always been a fly in the ointment you know, a true party pooper and buzzkill. Spacey also has some serious issues with women, most notable of which is that he doesn't like penetrating them.
Now I'm no reactionary bigot. Love of any kind in these crazy end days of ours should be embraced, even if its of the homme sur homme persuasion. Nobody deserves to be gunned down for their sexual orientation by some disgruntled public servant hopped up on Twinkies and self-loathing. Yeah that was a reference to Harvey Milk.
But that limpwristed cockjockey Spaceman took it one step too far. He started blaming everything that went wrong on set with the lovely Anna Paquin, calling her a she-Devil, shouting at her with his trademark pomp and bluster. One time there was a mix-up with the catering crew, and it looked like he was about to get all Ike Turner on Paquin like white on rice.
You think I'd stand about and let a beautiful woman take a beating from some second rate Redford? Hell to the N-O.
I jumped Spacey and tore him about six or seven new assholes before he even knew which way was up. I'm not a violent man by nature but there's NEVER an excuse for a grown man hitting a woman.
By the time Shandling pulled me off that Keizer Soze pink doughnut fuck, he was bleeding from every orifice as though he'd just been cockpumped by a dozen hardcore bodybuilding motherfuckers out the back of Studio 54 like it was '77 again.
Spacey took off to England not long after, hiding out at the Old Vic in some pencil-pushing job as their artistic director. He claims he wanted to get back to his theatrical roots, but mainly he knows if we cross paths again it'll be on like Donkey Kong."
I jumped Spacey and tore him about six or seven new assholes before he even knew which way was up. I'm not a violent man by nature but there's NEVER an excuse for a grown man hitting a woman.
By the time Shandling pulled me off that Keizer Soze pink doughnut fuck, he was bleeding from every orifice as though he'd just been cockpumped by a dozen hardcore bodybuilding motherfuckers out the back of Studio 54 like it was '77 again.
Spacey took off to England not long after, hiding out at the Old Vic in some pencil-pushing job as their artistic director. He claims he wanted to get back to his theatrical roots, but mainly he knows if we cross paths again it'll be on like Donkey Kong."
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