Well, what an eventful day it was, Dear Diary. On my way out of court where I paid a fine of $40,000 (carefully counted out in small change) and promised never to talk to Raymond again, who should I bump into but Russell Crowe and his pile of shit.
Naturally, I jumped at this opportunity and quickly convinced Russell to join me for an interview about his sterling career.
We adjourned to a downtown bar, myself on one side of the table, Russell and his pile of shit on the other. By this time his pile of shit was really beginning to smell (this being a warm day), so I politely asked Russell if he wouldn't mind taking it outside. Russell indicated that he did mind, very much so, and in the end I dropped it.
After an hour or two of hard liquor consumption, and several abortive groping episodes, Russell was finally ready to commence our interview. I politely ignored his now reeking pile of shit and steeled myself to begin.
Dear Diary: So Russell, you are certainly riding high at the moment...
Russell Crowe: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
DD: Simply that you are riding high at the moment.
RC: Yeah? Is that right?
DD: I believe so, yes.
RC: (focusing with difficulty on his interrogator) Yeah? You might want to check your facts, how about I check your facts? Hey? You want me to take you to the cleaners?
DD: Russell.
RC: You want a helping hand from ol' Russell? Cause I can give it to you, better believe it...
DD: Russell.
RC: What the fuck are you trying to impute...
DD: Russell, shut up. Let's talk about your band.
RC: Band?
DD: Yes, Russell, your band.
RC: What about it?
DD: Mainly, just why you felt the need for it.
RC: Rock is what it's about. Thirty Odd Foot of Grunt is pure rock. I am the greatest actor in the world.
DD: Thirty Odd Foot of Russ, har har.
RC: What? What did you say?
DD: Have another drink, Russell.
RC: Fuck you.
DD: Sure. Whatever. I'm losing interest rapidly here, Russell.
RC: I could fuck you over, mate. Wanna see how?
DD: Tell me about your mother, Russell.
RC: (makes lunge for Dear Diary) Fuck you!
DD: (grabs Russell in a headlock, both of us beginning an awkward little dance around the bar table) What's that Russell? Tell me about your mother, Russell!
RC: (now choking on his own vomit) Arraaccckh!! Fruaauckyou!!
DD: Shut up Russell! Let's talk about Gladiator and why it fails on so many levels, shall we?
RC: (collapses semi-conscious in the corner) Garrrghh...
DD: (giving Russell a swift kick to the gut) Wake up, Russell! I want to talk about Gladiator!
RC: Brwwrooooaa...
DD: And about your mother, Russell. Mustn't forget her.
RC: Arrrrccgg.
DD: (kicks Russell again in the guts) Why, Russell? Why did you feel the need to form Thirty Odd Foot of Grunt? Who told you that you could do that?
RC: Huh?
DD: Tell me about your mother, Russell.
RC: Mother?
DD: That's right, Russell. Your mother.
RC: My mother's dead.
DD: So what? She was alive at some point, wasn't she?
RC: I uh... guess.
DD: So tell me about her.
RC: Uuuuh... (groans)
DD: Never mind. Let's talk about Gladiator instead. Or, better yet, let's talk about why you feel the need to grope and lick people inappropriately.
RC: Fuck you! I'm the greatest actor in the world!
DD: Oh really. Can you verify that?
RC: Yeah, fuck you.
DD: (administering yet another kick in the guts) No, never mind Russell - tell me about your mother!
RC: Gaaah...
DD: Tell me about your mother, Russell. Tell me about Gladiator, tell me about your band, let's talk about sex...
RC: Guaaahh?
DD: Yes. Let's talk about sex. What it is, where it is, and how people can avoid becoming embroiled in yours.
RC: Huuu...
DD: Any advice for the fans, Russell? And by the way, what is that steaming pile of shit you carry around with you?
(to be continued at some later stage).