Sean Penn on Billy Bob Thornton

“Wally, I've dealt with plenty of deluded hacks during my tenure as a Hollywood chancer romancer and disco dancer. Ever since Tarantino made Reservoir Dogs on the cheap, every mentally disturbed shitbag armed with a camcorder has gone the Orson Welles route. 

Back in the early 1990s there was an up and coming actor/director in Hollywood, who despite being some banjo-strummin' bucktooth yahoo with a beer gut the size of Nebraska still somehow managed to smash some primo cooch in his day. 

He also has three names, the true hallmark of many a crazy sociopathic fuck. Lou Diamond Phillips, Lee Harvey Oswald, Sarah Jessica Parker. The list is endless.

I'm talking of course about Billy Bob Thornton.

That squeal-like-a-pig hillbilly shithead approached me about a film he was working on about some windowlicker armed with a scythe who goes all samurai on some poor fucker, but instead of being a gentleman about it he decided to try and alpha male me, talking about how great his film was, how everyone wanted in on it, etc etc, carrying on like Don King Viagra-ed up in a Saigon whorehouse, but the fact of the matter was this Waylon Jennings-listening nutcase couldn't have got laid in a vagina storm.

But then he started up about all the fine Hollywood trim he was pounding, insinuating ol' Sean here was picking up stinky seconds.

Well hot damn I wasn't about to sit around listening to this chodeslapping redneck try to son me about whatever poontang he may or may not have been up in, so I went to town on his stupid cornpone ass, throwing jabs and hooks like Leon Spinks in his prime.

It wasn't Billy Bob Thornton, it was Billy Bob Thought you were hot shit but you just got served motherfucker.

People think that Thornton's dribbly affectations of being retarded in Sling Blade were a fine display of acting, but the truth was that his cousin-fuckin' cornbelt ass was still reeling from a gorilla style thumping from your boy SP."

Sean Penn on Vince Vaughn

“Wally, I've said it before but it bears repeating... I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I'm not. Vive la difference, as they say in Israel.

Anyway, I've had to deal with my fair share of grumpy downriver motherfuckers during my time in the spotlight. 

For instance when I was directing Into The Wild with the talented Emile Hirsch, there was a co-actor of his, a squareheaded douchebag with the cojones to question my on-set methods even though he spent his career playing second fiddle to a talentless creep like Owen Wilson and getting gangbanged by Jennifer Aniston.

I'm talking of course about Vince Vaughn.

So this bargain bin Ray Liotta motherfucker starts coming on strong like King tittyfucking Kong, trying to tell me how to frame this shot here, set up the lighting on that scene there, on and on til the break of dawn until I snapped like a Kit Kat on LSD and beat his stupid ass so hard he looked like one of Rosie O’Donnell’s tampons. It was the balled-fist equivalent of Chow Yun Fat bursting into a Hong Kong tea room with a pair of sawn off shotguns.

I told Vaughn that he better go cry into his banana daiquiri and nurse his wounds and think about how he was just on the business end of a world class Sean Penn smackdown.

I've towered over Hollywood for more than twenty years like Jack Palance in a midget factory, and wasn't about to let some johnny come lately start calling the shots on my own film.”

Sean Penn on Jennifer Jason Leigh

"Trust me Wally, I could Scheherazade the living bejeesus out of the information superhighway with tales of crazy strumpets all up in my shit like undigested kernels of sweetcorn.

For instance, back when I was in short pants filming Fast Times at Ridgemont High, there was one young chica that was always throwing herself at me like Hindus under the bus at the Ratha Yatra festival.

I'm talking about Jennifer Jason Leigh. 

Hot damn, she was one crazy lady, always purring at me suggestively with those big banjo eyes, stroking my leg between takes and generally looking to get scribbled on with white ink by the almighty Penn.

She was some primo trim back then and would probably still trap a thick one now post-Jaeger bombs, but I've been around the world like Lisa Stansfield and seen more shit than an on-call proctologist at a curry festival, and best believe I can spot damaged goods. Poor JJ was crying out for a daddy figure, probably cos her own pops was some type of cold emotionally unavailable douchebag.

But like Sir Mix-A-Lot once said, "don't call me dada!"...I got no time for crazy girls with their Freudian fucknuttery. She got the message and soon moved on from her fixation with me and started up with Forrest Whitaker. 

God damn he wrecked that shit son, imagine an F18 stealth fighter jet smashing through a side of beef. It was unseemly.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that having some basketcase all on your jock like genital herpes ain't no thing to be boasting about to all and sundry like a Dickensian town crier with ADHD. Think of it like Pizza Hut - we've all been there, and it's nothing to get too excited about really."