Honestly. Where did that god-damn PA go? I mean, what is this? I feel like I'm working on Ice Age or like a community college animation assignment or some shit -- God fucking dammit.
This is Pixar. If I ask for a scone or some biscotti, I don't expect to wait 10 fucking minutes for some unpaid douche bag with stars in his eyes to get it to me. I don't care if you grew up in Iowa, that doesn't mean you should walk at the same pace as your dead grandmother. Jesus Christ.
Look how fucking angry I am:
Can I ask a question? Honestly, it's not that difficult to answer. How many Pixar films had the name of the star as the title? Hmm? Do you know? Two. Two films. And I bet Ratatouille was helped by people who understood the English fucking language. Listen Juan, I don't want my trailer cleaned right now. Go eat a Taco and get out of my face. Maybe you and the Iowan can be fuckwit best friends. WAAAALL-EEE!
This whole operation is a joke. I'm getting too old for this. I'm trying to be professional. I'm trying to be the bigger man. But how am I supposed to be adorable when I'm surrounded by idiots who would rather stand around jerking off than do their job for once. I am furious:
They wanted me at Dreamworks. Do you know that? I could have done Shrek 5, but I chose to be here.
So how about you be fucking grateful and bring me my latte before the world comes to an end or I learn to say something out loud other than my name. Fuck.
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