CASEY AFFLECK: You're kidding me. THIS guy? This guy right here? That's Joaquin Phoenix? No.
JOAQUIN PHOENIX: Why are you trying to hurt me, Casey?
CASEY: I just... SERIOUSLY? Are you sure you're not Vincent Gallo?
JOAQUIN: Well, now, I don't think THAT kind of talk is really necessary, Casey.
CASEY: Jack? Jack Black, is that you? You're looking svelte.
JOAQUIN: No, not Jack. You know, this happens a lot to me.
CASEY: A long-lost McConaughey who's named, like, Corn Nuts or something? Am I on Punk'd?
JOAQUIN: That show doesn't exist any more Casey. And now, neither does my self-confidence. I've written a poem about it. Here, let me read a bit...
CASEY: ... THIS GUY? Joaquin? Quick, am I drunk?
JOAQUIN: It goes, "There was a young man with a stained shirt // who didn't care whose feelings he hurt. // I took his bungee-cord belt // and asked how it felt // when I wrapped it around his stupid pointer-finger of judgment and then RIPPED IT OFF AND JAMMED IT IN HIS EAR, which wasn't much effort to exert."
CASEY: That's... so... Joaquin, um, dude, I meant to say you look awesome. You're a handsome devil.
JOAQUIN: Thanks, Casey. I'm so glad we could share. It's nice when people listen.
CASEY: Yes, that's... yes.
