BC: Welcome to Burning Circus, Mr. Eastwood, and thank you for agreeing to an interview.
Clint: Who are you?
BC: I'm from Burning Circus, an on-line humor magazine. We're here for the interview?
BC: The interview that we set up about--
Clint: What line is this on?
BC: Line, Mr. Eastwood?
Clint: Will you be sending this through a tele-graph line?
BC: Haha, 'on-line'. I get it. Good one, Mr. Eastwood.
BC: I mean, ah, no, it's on the internet.
BC: You know, the Web? On a website? It's a humorous website.
Clint: Web-sight? Is that some kind of disorder? Like tunnel vision? I squinted into the sun too much and the docs give me robot eyes.
BC: Uh, that's...wow. Okay. Can we ask a few questions?
Clint: Course, they took away my guns then. I'm pretty sure I can tell a Magnum .44 carbide revolver from a wax copy. Not this here grenade though. I had it surgically attached to my sternum with wood screws.
BC: Oh, god, that's not...holy shit. I thought it was a tumor.
Clint: It's not a tumor.
BC: Heh. Good one.
BC: Okay, so let's talk about your career. The persona you've nearly defined in the spaghetti western genre in Hollywood has evolved into a full-fledged--
Clint: One second. I need to drain the muzzle.
BC: Sure, the bathroom is down on your left just after the water cooler.
BC: Mr. Eastwood? The bathroom is down--
Clint: Okay. Next question.
BC: Aw, c'mon. That's our new couch.
Clint: What am I, made of time? Next question, boy.
BC: Fine, well let's try this. Some say that your declining mental health has kept roles from you that--
Clint: Quick, get down! (drops to a crouch, adjusts an invisible dial in his ear) Bzzbeep! Bzzbeep!
BC: I don't underst--
Clint: (Pulls a small caliber pistol from his boot and fires three rounds into the corner of the room. Something squeals from behind a desk)
BC: Jesus! What the hell was that?
Clint: Paparazzi. They use expert midgets to follow my every move. I hit two with my car last week and this morning I found one floating in the pool.
BC: No, wait, I see it. It was a rat. Oh gross.
Clint: They're just really small.
BC: See, look--it has a tail, and you just sort of shot off a leg. It's kinda moving in little circles. You see it? Right under the desk there?
Clint: A casualty of war. Sometimes you gotta shoot off a few legs when you're making a midget omelette.
BC: Actually, you pulled a gun on a rat. In my office. During an interview. I'm not editing this out, you know.
Clint: This ain't no gun. Not the way you people think, anyway. It's them. They made it. It's a specially designed early detection system for--but I can't tell you. The government even got files on it. On them. They are other (looks heavenward) worldly! Far away, they guard the truth.
BC: The truth?
Clint: (points heavenward) ...the truth is out there!
BC: Heh, got me again. That's clever.
Clint: (furious) Dare you doubt the Supreme Alliance?
BC: Ahh, no, I believe you. Look, this is getting way out of hand. Can we focus?
Clint: Yes, sorry. It's just that the radiation does things to me..I-I sometimes do irrational things.
BC: It's okay. Ahem, where were we? Alright, your career began in a surprising way, can you tell us--
Clint: For instance, your car.
BC: What about it?
Clint: Nothing. This heres an interview. Ask me a question.
BC: Okay, what the hell did you do to my car?
Clint: There's no way you gonna get it all out. You better burn it and collect the insurance.
BC: Get what out?
Clint: It's time for my pills. I'm leaving.
BC: Hey, what did you do? Come back here!
Clint: Your secretary is a piece of ass. Mind if I put my dirty hairy in her on the way out?
Clint: Come on. I'll pay for the car. Make my day?
BC: (sigh) Go ahead.
Clint: Do I feel lucky? I'm about to. Ha! (leaves)
BC: She's got the clap.