Jonah Hill’s eyes found the light amidst the grime of an NYU bar post-midnight on an otherwise unceremonious Tuesday. He stared at it with the same steadfast determination he’d once reserved for particularly dramatic movie lines. But not in a long time had any script held as much truth for him as the light that shown, brighter than the silver screen, atop a dirty wall in New York City.
*This man is not Jonah Hill.
“Pour me another, chief,” he mumbled.
Slumping over the counter, dawn inched towards day, cold beer warming in his worked-in hands.
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight, boss,” replied the bartender.
The man let his tired neck give way to the mounting weight of a hazy head. In another life, he would’ve felt like punching someone.
But now, after life’s cruel surprises over the past decade, the man only nodded, barely, and remained sitting silently. He stayed until close, when finally he left without too much of a fuss from the bartender.
After the man shown here exited the bar, a napkin that had been left beneath his stool was miraculously unearthed.
The napkin is now understood to be part of a series of amateur experimental poetry.
That this crucial element to the larger collection has been salvaged provides us with substantial evidence for the existence of God.
In a rare turn of events, two hatted men were seen engaging in casual, hat-related conversation. Here is a transcript of the interaction:
“Good evening, sir. I can’t help but admire that hat you’re sporting. Is that authentic dogshit it’s made of?”
“Ha! If only. No, that’s Grade A Delusion, that is. I took nearly 87 pictures with my cell phone camera of my reflection before I left the house.”
“Do excuse me! I could’ve sworn I saw a shred of undigested corn in there.”
“I say! What a marvelous hat you’ve got on!”
“Oh! Well, thank you, good sir. It’s made of the finest Insecurity on the market.”
“My, it looks like real, authentic, genuine Insecurity! It must’ve cost a fortune!”
“Certainly not! My pride and self-worth was all it took, really.”