Wow. You know… What has to happen in a person’s life to become a critic anyway? What are you writing, another review? Huh? Is that any good? Is it? Is it bad? Did you even see this? Let me read it.
No, you won’t call the police… let’s read your fuckin’ review. “Callow.” Callow is a *label*. It’s just… “Lackluster.” That’s just a labels. Margin… marginalia. Are you kidding me? Sounds like you need penicillin to clear that up. That’s a label too. These are all just labels. You just label everything. That’s so fuckin’ lazy… You just… You’re a lazy fucker. You’re a lazy… You know what this is? You even know what that is? You don’t, You know why? Because you can’t see this thing if you don’t have to label it. You mistake all those little noises in your head for true knowledge.
No, I’m not finished! There’s nothing here about technique! There’s nothing in here about structure! There’s nothing in here about intentions! It’s just a bunch of crappy opinions, backed up by even crappier comparisons… You write a couple of paragraphs and you know what? None of this cost you fuckin’ anything! The Fuck! You risk nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! I’m a fucking actor!
This play cost me everything… So I tell you what, you take this fucking malicious, cowardly, shittyly written review and you shove that right the *fuck* up your wrinkly tight ass.
The last time I flew here from LA, George Clooney was sitting two seats in front of me. With those cuff links, and that… ridiculous chin. We ended up flying through this really bad storm. The plane started to rattle and shake, and everyone on board was crying, and praying. And I just sat there. Sat there thinking that when Sam opened that paper it was going to be Clooney’s face on the front page. Not mine. Did you know that Farrah Fawcett died on the same day as Michael Jackson?
Yeah, yeah. Yeah, well, I mean, previews were pretty much a train-wreck. We can’t seem to get through without a raging fire or a raging hard-on. I’m broke. I’m not sleeping like, you know, at all. And um, this play is kinda starting to feel like a major deformed version of myself that just keeps following me around, hitting me in the balls with a tiny little hammer. I’m sorry, what was the question?
