Name: Christopher Walken 2006-04-27 4:55
I know that you, my adoring public, are dying to know what I, Christopher Walken, think of Tom Cruise’s plan to eat his girlfriend’s placenta.
Little story. Sean Penn and I were working on At Close Range. Nice kid, Sean. Not too BRIGHT, you understand. Does not always know when to SHUT UP. But I always got through to him with a quick rap in the mouth. It was like this: Sean would start to ramble, and I would put up with it as long as I could, and then I’d rap him in the mouth, using my rings, and then he’d cry a little and everything would be okay. There was never any need to take things further and lose my composure and become disheveled. That is not the Walken way. Never pick up a chain when a rap in the mouth will do. You remember that. And you will save a ton on laundry.
So anyway, Sean had knocked some girl up. Some little cupcake who worked for Craft Services. And the poor kid gave birth during shooting, and Sean had let her come to the set to watch us work, and after it was over, my God, there was placenta EVERYWHERE. Do I even have to tell you?
I had no patience, I’m afraid. That is something Christopher Walken needs to work on. I went to my trailer the instant her water broke. I was in character, you understand, and my character’s natural response would have been to shoot her in the belly, so I went to my trailer to have a smoke and practice my hitch kicks. Once a hoofer, always a hoofer.
What? You think hitch kicks aren’t MANLY? You LAUGH? Oh, my friend. Is that right? That’s not right. That is not RESPECT. Email me and apologize, and perhaps I will not have to come to your home and CARVE MY INITIALS INTO YOUR FACE. And if you should choose to send me a little token of your respect, via PayPal, I would not turn my nose up at, say, one large. Send it to links are disabled in the dustbin, and we will be friends once more, as long as you don’t tax my patience again.
Of course, if you did tax my patience, well, they would need a bass boat and some sort of STRAINER to recover your REMAINS. But that will not be necessary, right? No, let’s not discuss such things. Because we are friends.
So I come out of my trailer to see if this thing is over or if I have to pistol-whip someone to get things moving, and Sean has the placenta in a bowl, and he’s giggling like a little girl and saying he wants to cook for everybody. We were filming the kitchen scene, and poor stupid Sean didn’t realize none of the appliances worked. They are fake appliances, you understand. False. But the catering people had a grill, and Sean said he wanted to make placenta “po boys.”
Me, I cannot respect a man who giggles. It’s a thing. It’s part of who Christopher Walken is. So I take Sean by the hair, and I throw him down on the counter on his back, and I put my .45 in his eye, just so the muzzle is poking him a little bit, right up against the white, and in a calm and patient tone, I say, “Sean, I hate to interrupt. You know me. I am a civilized man. I wear a suit, and I put products in my hair, and I do not raise my voice, because that is what thugs do. But I must tell you that if you don’t throw out that disgusting mess and get back in character, it will take the stagehands a week to get your BRAINS off of the CEILING.”
So Sean cried a little, and a stagehand emptied the bowl in the trash, and we ended up getting a lot of good film in the can. And while the film was in post-production, Madonna came to my house, and I’m sorry to say, I banged her a little. Just to be polite, really. She shows up at my house at two a.m. with giant plastic cones on her chest and a jar of imported marmalade, so I diddled her a couple times just as a courtesy. A man who is not a good host is not a man. Remember that. Always have Cokes in the fridge and some Geno’s pizza rolls or something you can throw in the oven in an emergency. I learned that from John Gotti, before the feds took him down. He was embarrassed to admit that he had pizza rolls in a box. An Italian like John, eating pizza rolls. But Vicki could barely boil water. The woman never turned a hand. Me, I would have used a sap on her, to stimulate her interest in domestic matters, but deep down John was a little soft. And look what it got him. A suite in the greybar hotel and, from what I hear, a very sore tuchus.
What I’m saying here is, Tom Cruise is not a man. A man does not eat afterbirth. Unless maybe he’s at war, and he’s starving, and he comes across a bombed-out hooch, and some broad has been blown apart, and there’s some afterbirth handy, and maybe some wood for a fire, and a skillet. Then, well, sure, you can eat afterbirth. You do what you must, in order to SURVIVE. But discretionary afterbirth? ELECTIVE afterbirth? That is a sign that you’re getting soft. That is an invitation for somebody to put a .22 against the back of your head and BADA-BING! Put you OUT, while your afterbirth is still sizzling on the Foreman grill and your capers are still in the little jar.
I’ve said too much. Have I said too much? I’ve said too much. It happens. But I know you won’t talk, right? Because you and I are friends. And we are going to stay friends. If you know what’s good for you.
Now–friend–hurry up with that PayPal. I feel like hitting the crap tables.
Little story. Sean Penn and I were working on At Close Range. Nice kid, Sean. Not too BRIGHT, you understand. Does not always know when to SHUT UP. But I always got through to him with a quick rap in the mouth. It was like this: Sean would start to ramble, and I would put up with it as long as I could, and then I’d rap him in the mouth, using my rings, and then he’d cry a little and everything would be okay. There was never any need to take things further and lose my composure and become disheveled. That is not the Walken way. Never pick up a chain when a rap in the mouth will do. You remember that. And you will save a ton on laundry.
So anyway, Sean had knocked some girl up. Some little cupcake who worked for Craft Services. And the poor kid gave birth during shooting, and Sean had let her come to the set to watch us work, and after it was over, my God, there was placenta EVERYWHERE. Do I even have to tell you?
I had no patience, I’m afraid. That is something Christopher Walken needs to work on. I went to my trailer the instant her water broke. I was in character, you understand, and my character’s natural response would have been to shoot her in the belly, so I went to my trailer to have a smoke and practice my hitch kicks. Once a hoofer, always a hoofer.
What? You think hitch kicks aren’t MANLY? You LAUGH? Oh, my friend. Is that right? That’s not right. That is not RESPECT. Email me and apologize, and perhaps I will not have to come to your home and CARVE MY INITIALS INTO YOUR FACE. And if you should choose to send me a little token of your respect, via PayPal, I would not turn my nose up at, say, one large. Send it to links are disabled in the dustbin, and we will be friends once more, as long as you don’t tax my patience again.
Of course, if you did tax my patience, well, they would need a bass boat and some sort of STRAINER to recover your REMAINS. But that will not be necessary, right? No, let’s not discuss such things. Because we are friends.
So I come out of my trailer to see if this thing is over or if I have to pistol-whip someone to get things moving, and Sean has the placenta in a bowl, and he’s giggling like a little girl and saying he wants to cook for everybody. We were filming the kitchen scene, and poor stupid Sean didn’t realize none of the appliances worked. They are fake appliances, you understand. False. But the catering people had a grill, and Sean said he wanted to make placenta “po boys.”
Me, I cannot respect a man who giggles. It’s a thing. It’s part of who Christopher Walken is. So I take Sean by the hair, and I throw him down on the counter on his back, and I put my .45 in his eye, just so the muzzle is poking him a little bit, right up against the white, and in a calm and patient tone, I say, “Sean, I hate to interrupt. You know me. I am a civilized man. I wear a suit, and I put products in my hair, and I do not raise my voice, because that is what thugs do. But I must tell you that if you don’t throw out that disgusting mess and get back in character, it will take the stagehands a week to get your BRAINS off of the CEILING.”
So Sean cried a little, and a stagehand emptied the bowl in the trash, and we ended up getting a lot of good film in the can. And while the film was in post-production, Madonna came to my house, and I’m sorry to say, I banged her a little. Just to be polite, really. She shows up at my house at two a.m. with giant plastic cones on her chest and a jar of imported marmalade, so I diddled her a couple times just as a courtesy. A man who is not a good host is not a man. Remember that. Always have Cokes in the fridge and some Geno’s pizza rolls or something you can throw in the oven in an emergency. I learned that from John Gotti, before the feds took him down. He was embarrassed to admit that he had pizza rolls in a box. An Italian like John, eating pizza rolls. But Vicki could barely boil water. The woman never turned a hand. Me, I would have used a sap on her, to stimulate her interest in domestic matters, but deep down John was a little soft. And look what it got him. A suite in the greybar hotel and, from what I hear, a very sore tuchus.
What I’m saying here is, Tom Cruise is not a man. A man does not eat afterbirth. Unless maybe he’s at war, and he’s starving, and he comes across a bombed-out hooch, and some broad has been blown apart, and there’s some afterbirth handy, and maybe some wood for a fire, and a skillet. Then, well, sure, you can eat afterbirth. You do what you must, in order to SURVIVE. But discretionary afterbirth? ELECTIVE afterbirth? That is a sign that you’re getting soft. That is an invitation for somebody to put a .22 against the back of your head and BADA-BING! Put you OUT, while your afterbirth is still sizzling on the Foreman grill and your capers are still in the little jar.
I’ve said too much. Have I said too much? I’ve said too much. It happens. But I know you won’t talk, right? Because you and I are friends. And we are going to stay friends. If you know what’s good for you.
Now–friend–hurry up with that PayPal. I feel like hitting the crap tables.