Dear Joaquin ,
What in the fuck? We had an agreement. Was it arguably one-sided? Perhaps. But you welched on it nonetheless. I bestowed upon you a highly coveted (not to mention limited) slot in my star clause. The stipulations of said clause are very clear. Should we ever bump into each other and totally make out, my marital bliss will not be jeopardized.
Additionally, I purchase Clay Pigeons, suffer your complexion in Gladiator and remain a loyal moviegoer. In return for my unprecedented generosity, you were merely asked to not go bat-shit crazy and embarrass me in front of my friends.
I forgave the big sunglasses (pill addiction, fame, Corey Hart Syndrome), the beard (raised in a cult, fear of razor burn, love of birds), and I even broke my own rule, “No fantasizing about vegans” for you. To naysayers, I said, “He has overcome a cleft palate and Space Camp to claw his way on to this clause! How dare you call him pasty and weird?” Well, I have watched this Vanilla Ice flavored face plant long enough! I have spoken to my lawyers and you are officially removed from my star clause. Your tears will not move me.
Bye! Good indeed, Joaquin. Bye! Good indeed. I can only hope Menudo upholds its age limit, lest Benicio Del Toro suffer the same fate as you.
So What? You're Famous.
P.S. If that ginger in the background is your handler, FIRE HIM!