“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.
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.”
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