To Fug For

CASEY AFFLECK: You’re kidding me. THIS guy? This guy right here? That’s Joaquin Phoenix? No.

JOAQUIN PHOENIX: Why are you trying to hurt me, Casey?

CASEY: I just… SERIOUSLY? Are you sure you’re not Vincent Gallo?

JOAQUIN: Well, now, I don’t think THAT kind of talk is really necessary, Casey.

CASEY: Jack? Jack Black, is that you? You’re looking svelte.

JOAQUIN: No, not Jack. You know, this happens a lot to me.

CASEY: A long-lost McConaughey who’s named, like, Corn Nuts or something? Am I on Punk’d?

JOAQUIN: That show doesn’t exist any more Casey. And now, neither does my self-confidence. I’ve written a poem about it. Here, let me read a bit…

CASEY: … THIS GUY? Joaquin? Quick, am I drunk?

JOAQUIN: It goes, “There was a young man with a stained shirt // who didn’t care whose feelings he hurt. // I took his bungee-cord belt // and asked how it felt // when I wrapped it around his stupid pointer-finger of judgment and then RIPPED IT OFF AND JAMMED IT IN HIS EAR, which wasn’t much effort to exert.”

CASEY: That’s… so… Joaquin, um, dude, I meant to say you look awesome. You’re a handsome devil.

JOAQUIN: Thanks, Casey. I’m so glad we could share. It’s nice when people listen.

CASEY: Yes, that’s… yes.