People like me. They always have. I’m a people person, it’s sort of my thing. Charisma never goes out of style. You could say it’s a Quibbitsian trait—our ability to blend seamlessly into disparate worlds, cultures, and places in history—and while I acknowledge the charm of my cousin and his wife Monica (not a friend, a bitch), they’re not breaking any records or damaging measuring instruments. I’m the sole member of the Quibbits family to have friends and enemies on all nine continents (including the two you don’t know about: your small, ape-sized human brains wouldn’t be able to comprehend the majesty of Malpisa, or the grandeur of Golos; these are our outer limits, our Pluto and Uranus). I don’t think it’s in writing but I’m definitely not welcome back in Cuba, Hong Kong, Adelaide, Christchurch, Zagreb, Beirut or Pittsburgh; on the other hand, my friends in Gstaad, Perth, Osaka, Micronesia, Juarez, Belfast, Minsk, Pyongyang, and Houston are always asking, “When are we getting another dose of Bennington? When?? We’re fiends! We’re fiending! We need a fix!!” My friends are drug addicts, you understand.
I’m loved all over the world, but somehow I can’t get a fucking meeting Hollywood. All of this would’ve changed had Spencer Pratt been allowed to run for Mayor of Los Angeles. I know the news said he came in third, but I’m not buying it. No one likes that fish lady, and the other one running, Ramen? She doesn’t know Los Angeles. Granted, neither do I, but I’m sure I’d do a better job than someone who supports food trucks and mocks those who believe in the healing power of crystals (it’s true, they’re real). Spencer Pratt would’ve been even better. But you live in Los Angeles, so you’re required to hate yourself and ignore reality, like all of the violent homeless drug addicts out on the street. Not too long ago, maybe about four centuries ago, you’d have to round them all up and horse-and-buggy them out to the bluffs and make them jump. Now we have guns, but apparently we’re not allowed to use them on non-productive members of society? Cap, as the young say. Cap.
Maybe that’s why The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth is only getting a qualifying theatrical run this fall. The movie that I worked on, which also happens to star Brad Pitt, will play in 350 theaters, all IMAX, before premiering on Netflix two weeks later. Wow, some release. Fuck you, Fincher. That’s right—I’m dropping the “Mr.” You’re just some dude to me, now. And My Sensei? Well, we’ll always have Morocco. And El Coyote. And even Bali, when our friendship was on its last legs. I’ll treasure and consult your teachings as long as I walk this Earth. But I doubt we’ll speak again, not in this timeline, not in this life. Perhaps I’ll see him further down my road, so much longer than that of the homo-sapien. There may not be anything “homo” about My Sensei, but he’s a man, and only a man at that. I’ll outlive him by many years, centuries even. His legacy will live longer, but in 500 years? Who knows. All I know is that I’ll still be here, barring some tear in the space-time continuum or a Muslim takeover of the avian community, which I find unlikely (fabric is for nesting, NOT clothing).
I’ve decided I’m going to run some of these IMAX screenings. Why not? I was involved in the making of The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth from beginning to end, and while we ended acrimoniously, I still want to make sure that the film is presented properly wherever it’s shown. I’ve been reading about IMAX projection and I have to tell you, it’s all a scam. The motherfucker who invented this shit was a real estate mogul who acknowledged the insignificant perceptual difference between IMAX projection and standard projection. He just wanted an excuse to build gigantic auditoriums. Whatever man, this is America, get your bag, but I think the people should know: you’re being ripped off every time you see a movie in IMAX. Worse than that, you’re being violated. Some would even say you’re being raped. Hell, I’d say that. If you see a movie in IMAX, congratulations, you’ve just been raped by the motion picture industry. Don’t worry, you’re not the first. Far from it!
Am I one of those victims? Not sexually, no. I wasn’t sexually raped, but I was certainly raped in every other way you can imagine. You may ask yourself, can you be raped in a non-sexual way? Is that even possible? I honestly don’t know, but I’m betting on yes. Just ask why you want orange juice all the time, or why the Nike logo makes your blood pressure go up. It’s because you’ve been watching too much TV, which is never projected properly. If you’re watching TV, you’re not only being brainwashed (mind-raped), you’re also debasing and dehumanizing yourself. Most people don’t know this, but all commercials have been completely AI-generated since roughly 2023. The people too, not just the sets and the special effects. You’re lied to and raped every day and there’s very little you can do about it, besides forgoing all media consumption, and who wants to live under a rock? Reptiles, that’s who. So in today’s society, you have two choices: get raped by the TV or the reptiles who actually run the world (it’s not “the Jews”—everyone is always blaming Jewish people today, talmbout how they’ve “been touched on” by a rabbi, and I can tell they’re all lying. They’re liars. You can just tell. We know these things, us birds. We see so much that you’ll never know).
We may have had a falling out, but I’m not sore about the Cliff Booth crew. I want the movie to do well. It’s a good movie (I’m assuming). None of it is AI-generated (and that’s on tea). Real people doing real things, albeit in a past tense (the 1970s feel like two minutes ago to me). I’ll be in the booth come November at the White Marsh and Anne Arundel IMAX theaters. Don’t be shy, please knock, and know that a smiling Bennington will greet you, not some acne-scarred teenager who doesn’t know the difference between 1:43:1 and 1:78:1. Trust me, you’re in good hands: all Maryland showings of The Further Mis-Adventures of Cliff Booth will be handled by a rooster, me, this rooster: Bennington Jamal Quibbits.
If you see Monica tell her I hate her and she’s not allowed to come to any of the screenings.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits: @RoosterQuibbits