I regularly post email/text conversations between my friend M and I on this blog because, frankly, we’re the funniest people we know. Here’s one from during the Toronto International Film Festival in September.
We have harboured fantasies of sister wife-ing Javier Bardem for years, but have never run into him. That’s the only reason he married Penelope Cruz: he didn’t know we were options.
Javier was in town for TIFF and my co-worker V met him. When I found out, I had to tell M.
Short and sweet. It went like this:
Me: Hey wanna help me kill someone? My co-worker sat next to Javier Bardem at the Ritz Carlton last night and Javier gave him the rest of his pack of Marlboro’s. I’m dying. I’m dead. And I’m stealing those cigarettes.
M: Moments ago I spilled my Palm Bay down the front of my shirt for seemingly no reason: BUT NOW I KNOW BETTER. Yes that co-worker is as good as dead. Can you mail me a picture of those cigarettes? Is it legal to marry a photograph?