I don’t care if the tattoo artist came out and said, “Chris walked in and all he said was, ‘Give me a tattoo that has nothing to do with Rihanna,’” I would assume that was code for, “Give me a tattoo on my neck that resembles the image of Rihanna after I hospitalized her by beating her with a combination of my fist and my cell phone.” Why?
Because he’s Chris Brown.
—Rembert Browne, Chris Brown’s Battered-Woman Tattoo: Yeah, That’s Totally Rihanna
“When I first met with agents, they said, “Okay, you’re going to play plumbers and mechanics and bus drivers and farmers. Go.” And I was like, “Man… Fuck you. I can play anything, you son of a bitch!” My response to that was to get this three-quarter headshot—like, knees to head—with this huge foam latex cock about the size of my forearm and fist that I’d made for a play. I got a headshot taken with this thing hanging out of my fly and just looking defiantly at the camera. I sent it to everybody in town. [Laughs.] That was my response to being told I was gonna be playing bus drivers: “Oh yeah? Have you seen my dick?”—
“This quick escalation from staid, conservative moderation to drunken debauchery should be familiar to any fan of the Philadelphia Phillies. Until five years ago, we were a downcast lot, conditioned to an unloved life of failure and mediocrity. The team was always rebuilding but nothing was ever built. We were content to cheer for Rico Brogna and eat at the Olive Garden. Yet one improbable run to the playoffs and an even more improbable world championship later, we found ourselves fat, drunk and happy…The line of free-agents hoping to pledge membership snaked all the way to the Jersey Shore and, desperate to avoid a comedown, Ruben “The Godfather” Amaro Jr started handing out nine figure contracts like Jell-O shots. That’s the thing about success: it’s so good when it hits your lips!”—Andy Greenwald (@andygreenwald), After the Gold Rush: Dismantling the Phillies