I’m Pretty Sure I Would Make a Great Lead Actor

Every so often, I realize that my incredible intelligence and abilities would allow me an unbelievable amount of success in a certain field. Whereas before I pointed out to you that I would make a great crime scene investigator, please allow me to today point out what a great lead actor I would be. And not just because it looks pretty easy.

I mean, laughing? Crying? Angering? I do those things every day! Well, except crying–I’m too macho for that, but really any movie (or “film”… because when you’re good at it, you call it a “film”) to contain a man crying cannot be considered believable anyway.

I cannot help but suspect that an audition process would provide little challenge for me; any actor hopefuls would simply leave the audition once I entered. Why wait around only to be beaten?

Snicker... 'wood'.

I would burst into the auditioning room screaming, “Director, director! Your wife is dead!”

“What?” he would gasp, “That can’t be true!”

“It is!” I reply. “Look, I found her head on the stairs on my way in,” and hold out to him a mangled woman’s head by its bloody hair.

“Noooo!” he screams, with much less pathos than I would. “Noooo!”

“Ah-ha!” I exclaim to the director, who is cradling the head and weeping like a total pussy, “I have fooled you! I was merely… acting!”

“What? Huh?” he looks around, his confusion infinitely less believable than it would be if I had portrayed it, “Who… whose head is this, then?”

“Merely a hooker whom I killed before the audition, then ripped at her face with my teeth until she was unrecognizable. Your real wife is home right now, more alive and sexually satisfied than ever before. The rest was just acting.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then I slowly start clapping. Then they get it, and they slowly start clapping. Then they really start clapping. Then they slow down at it a bit. But then they start clapping even harder, whooping and standing up and so forth.

Man, when you have your name on a fuckin' chair, that's when you KNOW you've made it.

After perhaps an hour of clapping, the director says, “I would love to give you this role! But we have already cast Adrian Brody for the role of the heroic husband, this audition is for his loyal wife. Whatever shall we do?” Once again, he is crying like a pussy.

“Well,” I say slyly, “why not change it so the wife is the hero? Then change the wife to a husband, and the husband to a wife, and Adrian Brody to a woman.”

The director gasps. “Brilliant! We shall schedule his surgery immediately.” And so it is settled.

Six weeks later, the cast, crew, and Adrienne Brody are all on set. Some anxiously await my arrival, but most are caught up in the hilarious antics and delicious frozen treats of Bill Cosby, whose unexpected arrival on set has put everyone in good spirits.

Soon, the director arrives.

“Where is Shaun? Where is our lead actor?” he asks. “I have looked in his actor’s chair that says ‘Shaun’, but he isn’t there, so I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Here I am!” says a be-sweatered me, stepping out from a crowd. Jaws drop and eyes pop out of their sockets, causing some panic as newly-blind crew members scrabble around on the ground looking for parts of their faces.

“It was never actually Bill Cosby, but instead me, the Shaun, acting like Bill Cosby!”

I stroll over to my “Shaun” chair and sit myself down. Once they see me in the chair they realize I really was Shaun all along, and when enough of the blind crew members are replaced with seeing crew members, they decide to begin the actual filming.

A picture of Bill Cosby? Or a picture of me acting like Bill Cosby? That's just it... you can't tell.

It’s a love scene, and Adrienne is beside me in bed, wearing a skimpy negligee that really shows off her new double-D’s.

“Action!” yells the director. Then he crumples in pain as my fist breaks his face.


The director cannot speak for all the blood in his mouth, but fiercely nods his assent.

“Excellent,” I say, cuddling up to Adrienne again. “So… action!” I intone suavely, looking at the hot (very) new starlet, “… sexy action.”

Having decided that the script was stupid, I begin showing off my amazing improv skills:

“So baby, we should really have sex one last time before the terrorists kidnap you and I have to fight to get you back. Later in the movie I’ll be too tired from killing them to put up with you trying to service me.”

We begin our tender smoochings, but then Adrienne gasps as I begin to enter her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, shocked.

“It’s called ‘method acting’. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

I rip off her clothes to reveal her sexily scarred and uneven new boobs to the camera.

“…and the fans will love this part.”

Remember the scene in 'Titanic' when they're fucking in the antique car? If it was me, her hand would have shot straight through the window.

After several takes the prop department has finally secured the bed enough to withstand the incredible G-force of my powerful method-acting thrusts, and we are finally getting good footage of Adrienne getting her brains fucked out, when I have an incredible thought that could only magnify the amazingness of the movie.

“Bring on the bad guys!” I call out. “We can shoot the action scenes now, I’ll do that while I’m fucking Adrienne Brody.”

The stunt men obligingly trot up to the bed, where I lay waste to them with a variety of acrobatic kicks, punches, chokes, and throws. I pick up Ms. Brody and swing her about from my waist, smashing the moaning starlet into several tough-looking men. Eventually I pull two Uzis out from under her pillow and begin firing two-handed into the group, mowing them down heroically. One of the prop guys keeps trying to shove a fake gun into the frame so I shoot him too—he clearly doesn’t understand method acting.

Eventually, I realize we have run fresh out of stunt men and production assistants.

I can only assume a movie will some day be made of my life. I, of course, would be a natural choice for a role. Or maybe Johnny Depp... that man can do ANYTHING.

“Well,” I say, dismounting Adrienne, “that should do it for the film. Just loop that and put it in theaters… kids’ll love it.” I motion toward the bed. “She’ll probably have a broken hip bone. Also, get someone to clean up the blood. I don’t know if a doctor inserted a hymen or I just tore some stitches, but she’s a bit of a mess.

“Makeup girls, meet me in my trailer if you wanna get some of that,” I say, motioning toward the semi-conscious Adrienne. Luckily, they don’t have much choice, since every man in Hollywood except for me is gay, anyway.

From that point on, I’m retired. What’s the point in continuing? I’ve created the best movie ever, broken every box office record, and instead of giving me any Academy Awards they just cancel all future awards ceremonies and let me take the giant Oscar statue home that they use for the stage. I’ll retire with more than enough money from residuals to take care of child support for all the out-of-work makeup girls—since they don’t bother making new movies anymore—as well as Adrienne Brody’s child, which doctors assure me is a miracle, anyway.

But my accomplishments as a medical wonder of fertilization are a matter for another post. In the meantime, ponder the above and rest assured that I would make a pretty great actor.