Okay, I’m just going to get right to it this time. Here is the main reason why I’m incredibly furious at Quentin Tarantino:
He has never cast me in any of his movies.
I would’ve made a great Bill in KILL BILL. But I’d have played the role a lot differently than that stupid David Carradine. First off, I would’ve worn a clown suit with really floppy shoes and an huge orange Afro. And instead of that “cool” walk that he did–or tried to do, ha ha–I would’ve hopped around on the furniture waving my arms like a flamboyantly gay gorilla, alternately barking or screaming my head off.
That stupid flute would have to go, too. During the campfire scene in which Bill tells Beatrix the “Pai Mei” story, I would’ve marched around her stark naked, playing a kazoo and a Belly-Bongo while ramming my big, bare butt against a bass drum every time I passed by it. And I’d be screaming the “Pai Mei” story at her at the top of my lungs instead of just quietly “telling” it to her like that rank amateur, David Carradine, until Uma Thurman was utterly terrified of me and I’d win every scene. “WIN! WIN! WIN! TERRIFY YOUR CO-STARS!” That’s my acting motto.
I would’ve terrified the hell out of Samuel L. Jackson in PULP FICTION by blowing up his dressing trailer with dynamite and attacking him every night dressed as the Wolf Man. That’s why I would have made a much better Vincent Vega than that big dummy, John Travolta. During the “Tony Rocky Horror-foot massage” discussion scene, my character would be wielding a chainsaw and sawing huge, gaping holes in the walls amidst the deafening roar as I screamed “IT’S IN THE BALLPARK, JULES!!! FOOT MASSAGE IS IN THE F**KING BALLPARK!!!” and threw live grenades in every direction, exploding the building down around us.
What a sweet acting victory that would be as my co-stars, along with the entire film crew and that idiot Tarantino, fled in mortal terror for their very lives as I gave the greatest performance in film history until the whole city block was a raging inferno. What an incredibly satisfying theatrical triumph for me as police, firetrucks, and SWAT vans descended upon the scene while I continued to destroy everything in sight with a shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher in one hand and a flamethrower in the other while reciting the remainder of my lines.
“WE HAPPY, JULES!!!” I’d shriek as I double-checked Marcellus Wallace’s mysterious briefcase, then filled it with C-4 and hurled it into the midst of my attackers and scattered them like frantically fleeing cockroaches as the tremendous explosion blew out windows for miles around and I stood there laughing maniacally, already mentally composing my acceptance speech for when I won the Best Actor Oscar or else. John Travolta? That big dope never thought of any of these brilliant acting choices, and neither did the vastly stupid Quentin Taran-tuna-breath.
I haven’t seen DEATH PROOF yet so I don’t know exactly how I would’ve improved upon Kurt Russell’s doltish performance in that. I’d probably tie up all my co-stars and launch them out of a catapult one by one into various things like the craft services food table and whatever large bodies of water or fine glassware shops happened to be within firing range of our filming location.
Not quite sure of my exact battle plan there, though, until I actually see the movie. But anyway, I would’ve emerged victorious once again even if I had to lay waste to the entire town, because I’m a “method” actor like Brando, who once totally destroyed a small city in Utah while performing “As You Like It” at the local dinner theater in 1957.
I haven’t seen JACKIE BROWN either, but I’m thinking maybe I might have just gone into that one with 100 pounds of dynamite strapped to my chest. Maybe call in an airstrike on my own coordinates during my big dramatic scene and nuke the place, transforming it into a napalm-fueled apocalypse of horror. But it’s hard to say without actually reading the script and “getting into” my character first. That’s acting lingo, by the way.
And then there’s the big scene in RESERVOIR DOGS where Michael Madsen dances around in front of the bound cop before cutting his ear off. I don’t know where Tarantino got this talentless loser, but the dimwitted director’s total ignorant stupidity in casting him instead of me is now the stuff of Hollywood legend. In fact, Sean Connery was asking me about it just the other day over a light lunch of squab under glass with bamboo sprouts at Toots Shor’s. “So,” said Sir Sean, “how would you have improved on that particular scene, porfle?”
“Well, Sean,” I replied, stifling a belch, “I would have hung Tarantino up by his balls and used him to play human skittle pool with the tied-up guy, leveled the place with an army of steamrollers, and then released the giant, ravenous vultures upon the remaining cast and crew.” Noticing Connery’s naked, childlike admiration of my greatness, I smiled modestly before liberally dousing my squab with horseradish and shoving the entire thing into my mouth at once. “Mmmfff, mmmrrfff,” I continued, further describing the fiendishly brilliant acting skills I’d have brought to bear in the role that Michael Madsen had so thoroughly botched. “Mmmfff…grrmmmffff…bbfff.” The squab was delicious.
Well, you may have heard that Sean Connery has subsequently retired from acting, and with such intimidating competition you can hardly blame him. I, being the gentleman that I am, politely refrained from telling him how I would’ve overwhelmingly improved upon his sadly-lacking portrayal of James Bond. I didn’t mention how I would have launched a surprise mortar attack against Gert Frobe and Honor Blackman during the Fort Knox sequence in GOLDFINGER, and encased producers Harry Saltzman and “Cubby” Broccoli up to their necks in large blocks of cement and then shot apples off their heads with a crossbow.
And, demonstrating an almost super-human restraint, I very gallantly omitted the part where my involvement in the production of YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE would have climaxed with me being crowned Emperor of Japan, ordering everyone in the entire country to dress up like Groucho Marx and speak Swahili for the rest of their lives, and then declaring nuclear war on Finland. After all, Sean’s a really nice guy and I didn’t want to burden him with unbearable regret and a soul-crushing sense of inadequacy in comparison to my soaring, earth-shattering, almost godlike greatness.
I’m still really mad at Quentin Tarantino for never casting me in any of his movies, and that I do not forgive. But I swear–on the souls of my grandchildren–that I will not be the one to break the peace that we have made here today.