The same contract also gives me the same salary and title if I spend all day masturbating and playing Prototype 2. And before you ask yourself what you would do in my situation: buy Prototype 2. It’s fucking great. Because Prototype 2 is great, and because nobody called me, and then started hiring people to run the show, I had my assistant start packing up my office days ago. I’m sorry.

A grunt was crying. One of the wounded, his friend, had just died. The other was just barely alive. I wanted to fly at a thousand miles an hour.
Riker called ahead so we could land at Camp Holloway without delay. We went by the tower like a flash and landed on the red cross near the newly set-up hospital tent. The stretcher bearers ran out to unload the cargo.
I could see that they had been busy lately. There was a pile of American bodies outside the hospital tent.
The other wounded man died.
We had lost the race.
The stretcher bearers’ technique was to cross the cadaver’s arms and then, with a twist, flip it off the deck onto the waiting stretcher. I watched as two specialists unloaded One-Leg. They dropped him in a grotesque heap on the canvas. The sun glinted off a gold band on his left hand. The specialists were laughing. About what, I don’t know. Maybe they were so accustomed to their job that they thought this was hilarious. Maybe it was nervous laughter. Regardless, their nonchalance was too much for me. I jumped out and made them stop before they got to the tent. I braced them on the spot and yelled and yelled and yelled.

Some people collect cars, I’ve collected wives.

After all, that’s what we did - came in and cooked.

Always the pain, the chaos of composition. He could not find order in the field of little symbols. They were in the hazy distance. He could not clearly see the picture that is called a word. A word is also a picture of a word. He saw spaces, incomplete features, and tried to guess at the rest.

Listen to me: Do not make the classic blunder of overeating before they bring the best. In this temple to gluttony, show restraint. There’s a steak you want, and if it’s not the first to be knifed onto your plate, ask for it. It’s the picanha. Pee-cahn-yah. You won’t find it in an American steakhouse—Brazilian butchers carve up a cow’s rump differently. The top is covered with fat, seasoned with rock salt, and cooked over flames so the fat seeps down and blends with the salt to remind you that you didn’t climb to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian. Ask me where I’d go for my last steak and I couldn’t say exactly. Maybe Marius in Rio, or Plataforma in New York, or Porcão in Miami. I’d keep waiting for more picanha, and the meal would never end.

The odd thing about this life is always that you spend half your time trying to get people to listen to you and the rest of the time trying to get them to leave you the fuck alone.

Who knows who’s going to end up in power in Egypt or Libya or any of those places? We don’t know if the next asshole is going to be any better than the previous asshole, but at least it’s a new asshole. In Egypt we saw that most people’s diet was bread and some lentils, nothing else. We wanted to film that, and our government handlers suddenly got very upset. What were they so frightened of? They wanted us to show the wealthy two percent who live spectacularly.

[In a Southern accent] You have to get me drunk and take me to a supermarket!