Tiny Brad Pitt

“Angelina took the kids, yeah. She said it was for my safety, she was worried one of them was going to put me up their nose or sit on me.”


Hey George! George, down here! It’s me, your friend Brad Pitt!

I know, stuff’s crazy, right? I got zapped by that laser, now I’m yay high, it’s been a real adventure. Listen, I heard you were maybe putting together a script for the next Ocean’s movie, and I just wanted to check in with you, make sure that this whole… me getting shrunk thing isn’t going to prevent me from reuniting with the gang on another fun international heist! I’ve gotta get back on this big screen, George.

I managed to get my tiny hands on a snapped off piece of mechanical pencil lead and have been jotting down some ideas, if you’re interested. I was thinking Cheadle and Gould could be pretending to be like… a funky father and son in a casino. And then one of them sets down a martini glass and I surf across an olive and jump into the croupier’s pocket and then I steal all the money. See? Or I could surf on a poker chip too. Maybe I surf on a bunch of objects and that’s my thing for this movie the way that eating was my thing for the others.

Or it might be fun if the whole cast got shrunk down and we have to steal the world’s smallest diamond or something, y’know? You wouldn’t have to shrink for real, we could do green screen stuff, but then it would be like we’re all the same still. I wouldn’t stand out, be a freak, or not remember what human touch felt like or anything. I’d just be the same heartthrob, instead of a precious anomaly of science.

Angelina took the kids, yeah. She said it was for my safety, she was worried one of them was going to put me up their nose or sit on me. I told her I could handle myself, because I’m Brad freakin’ Pitt! But I couldn’t stop her, because she’s now comparably hundreds of feet taller than me and no matter how fast I surfed down the street on top of a Micro Machines car, I couldn’t catch up with their limousine.

Anyway, that’s my sadness, not yours. You still dating models? That’s great. Okay, here’s an idea. Maybe there’s like… a narrow vent that we have to get into to disarm a laser grid or something, and things get really tense because Shaobo Qin breaks his ankle and can’t do his normal “secret Asian gymnastics” thing. But then I volunteer, and you guys rig me up on a pulley made of dental floss and lift me into the vent and I’m like the hero of the whole thing. Then the end is me having made a couch out of marshmallows, and I’m just kicking back and smoking a tiny cigar.

Listen, I’m not happy with my life right now. We always said we weren’t making the Ocean’s films for the creative whatever, or for the fans. We were making them as an excuse to go stay in Italian villas and hang out with Carl Reiner and get paid to do it. Well I’m calling in the troops. My pride has been heisted, and I want to steal it back with the help of ten other men and some women and guest stars from all walks of life, ideally in Morocco. I’m having a damn life crisis, and if there was ever a reason to shoot another Ocean’s film, it’s on account of my depression over being the size of a baby’s thumb.

What do you say? Call Damon, see if he’s in? Give Julia a buzz? Shoot an email to that bastard Garcia? You’re a good friend, George. Better than I deserve. While now literally true for me, you will always be a giant among men. Now before you go, can you please connect this twine to the other end of the kitchen? I’m going to zipline over and take a bath in a shot glass.

Shawn Bowers is a writer/performer in Chicago, IL. He encourages you to stalk him in his Web Zone or his Twittersphere.