Turns out I wasn’t supposed to be writing about my experiences on the set of The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth—sorry, The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth. They had to change the title because of me. Me. That’s right: Bennington finally did something with his life. He’s been in movies, music and books, but he’s never gotten his due. He’s never “gotten his flowers,” as the faggy kids say these days. That’s okay. Well, sort of. Not really. It’s not okay. It’s wrong. It’s really wrong. It’s extremely wrong that I haven’t been recognized as the genius that I am throughout the many hundreds of years I’ve been alive and walking this Earth. I can tell you it’s been the same Earth this whole time, too. Aliens exist, but they didn’t build the pyramids. You just can’t accept the fact that black and brown people can work hard and accomplish things you can’t even conceive. And that’s on tea.
My black friends taught me that. They teach me how to say all kinds of things, like “Fuck you mean,” “Big mood,” and “It’s not clocking to you that I’m standing on business.” Isn’t that beautiful? Don’t those words have the cadence of poetry? The eloquence? The elliptical, elusive, and ambiguous qualities of all great art? Maybe. I’m gonna say yes for now, for my sake. Because last week I got into trouble. I mean a lot a lot of trouble. My Sensei isn’t talking to me again. He’s not even calling me a faggot, he’s simply iced me out. Mr. Fincher, whom I was never friendly with, has also ignored all my calls and the late-night visit to his house. Brad Pitt? He doesn’t even know I exist. Fucking wife-beater. Deadbeat dad. Drug addict, drunk. Ugh. MOOD.
Big mood. I wish I was in a bigger mood, being happy and all, but I’m not. I feel like the narrator of a Jim Thompson novel, and not one of the good ones. I’m feeling like Lou Ford right now, right when he’s about to kill Amy Stanton. Poor Amy Stanton… she never got to see Fight Club, or any of Mr. Fincher’s other movies, like Alien 3 and The Game. I might not even get to see the new Fincher movie, the one I worked on, the one described by IMDb as, “Cliff Booth's backstory in his new role as a Hollywood fixer. Dark ComedyPeriod Drama. Coming soon Releases November 25, 2026.” Dark comedy? Period drama? Guys, I know the 1970s were 25 years ago, but we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to do this. We’re not old yet. Let’s reach a consensus on this: are we old yet? No! Thank you, everyone.
I tried some of these “crowd control” tactics on My Sensei and they didn’t work. He apparently had “no idea” I was writing from the frontlines of pre, prod, and post on the Cliff Booth movie. He didn’t know I was telling the world that he was best friends with, and I quote My Sensei here, because you’ll know how hurtful it was for me, “a chicken.” Not only that, but “the kind of bird that can’t even fly. The kind of bird that’s only good for one thing: food.” But apparently I was “too old,” and “a bag of bones;” they briefly discussed “marinating” me when I arrived on the set, and they had discussions about roasting me alive once they found my many articles for Splice Today, but I escaped in time. I won’t say where I am now but it has internet access. And Dunkin. Ugh, I fucking love Dunkin. America runs on Dunkin, and so does Bennington. Wicked good coffee, ma.
I’ve been cut out of the movie—that movie you now know as The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth will not feature Bennington Quibbits. Nor any of those re-shoots we did in Bali; apparently that was for an aborted Squid Game remake. In a way, I’m glad—I’m not sure the world can handle full-on Bennington right now. I have to keep it low-key while the jury in the Lindsay Clancy case continues to deliberate (?), while AOC is freezing her eggs, while Donald Trump is mogging Canada every chance he gets. I know I’m a big deal but I’m not world news. I have to stay humble. One day, I’ll be world news. It won’t be in a movie by Quentin Tarantino (NOT My Sensei anymore), nor by David Fincher. Maybe Stanley Kubrick, if they ever put my scenes back into Eyes Wide Shut. But honestly, I’m thinking of getting into the internet. TikTok. Kalshi. Charles Schwab. I gotta get my money up and stay humble. I feel like my next thing is being black. Yeah, I’m gonna be black. And I won’t have to think about it. Call me Bennington Dolezal—the “Quibbits” is optional for now.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits