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Brad: I Only Care About My Dog
With his left leg straight out in front of him and his right leg bent at his side, his left hand on the driveway and his right hand around a 40 oz. of Olde English Malt Liquor, the usually tight-lipped Brad Pitt was more than ready to dish the dirt for Entertainment Weekly.
“Ask yourself, honestly,” entreated the salt-of-the-earth celebrity, “does inflation in the early stages of the universe mean that the universe must be expanding at close to the critical rate at which it would just avoid re-collapse? F*ck it. That's what I say. Whether that pigeon is carrying a coil of rubber or an actual earthworm, whether I skip through Dr. Phil's book randomly or read it in order, whether Mercury rotates two or three times over the course of two Earth-years. . . . What does it matter? I don't care whether numbers are social or anti-social entities anymore than I care about my ex. What keeps me up nights is wondering whether my own dog, my girl, my “puppy-love,” who rode beside me on every beer run, slept beside me every night—whether she would even recognize me three years later. In my nightmares, she just stands there, hair up, next to what's-his-name. The both of them greet me with what that Dog Whisperer guy calls ‘the bark reserved for strangers.'”
The parched Brad swigged heartily from his bottle and paused as if taking in the dappled palette of the California summer's day. The pause continued, however, well after Brad closed his eyes, and it was clear to EW that the world-weary celebrity, many years and miles since Cutting Class, had passed out.
Although repeated attempts to wake him ultimately proved unsuccessful, Brad did utter a final, cryptic word: “stanines.”
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