Unless you’ve been living in the Bat Cave this week, you’ve undoubtedly heard the recording of Christian Bale going American Psycho on the director of photography of his upcoming movie, Terminator Salvation.
Poor Christian has been taking quite a beating in the media, what with all those f-words and raving threats of extreme physical violence. But, before we go casting stones, let me ask you: who among us hasn’t unleashed a furious, profanity-laced tirade on a helpless underling? I mean, just this morning I ran over my intern Jenny with my Jaguar in The Norman Nation parking garage. I’ve told her over and over: NO F%CKING EYE CONTACT!
And then later, during my weekly hand massage and manicure, I screamed at little Sun Lee without pause or mercy for a good half hour. I don’t remember exactly why, but I’m willing to bet that she deserved every violent, filthy word of it. I don’t care how much you cry, Sun Lee, these nails aren’t going to file and buff themselves. I mean . . . GOD F#CKING DAMMIT!
I feel that I can speak with some authority here because I actually have a lot in common with Christian Bale. Without a shirt, I, too, am devastating. I’m a millionaire many, many times over. And, on occasion, my mother has also accused me of assault. My point is, people like us—Christian and me—have stresses that the rest of you simply don’t. Do you have any idea what this economic crisis has done to the value of my third home? And don’t even get me F&CKING started on my Ferrari payments. I mean . . . HOLY F@CK!
You regular people, with your desk jobs and your inability to wear tights and memorize lines, are expected to treat people a certain way. You’re not allowed to scream at them, berate them or publicly threaten to kill them. But the rest of us—Christian and me—well, we are. Because, at the end of the day, thanks to our cubed abs, flawless jaw lines and fantastically overblown senses of importance, we're just way better than you.
NOW GET OVER HERE, JENNY! WHERE THE MOTHERF$CK IS MY F*CKING LATTE?!