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Baldwin Sets The Pulp Straight

So, like so many others, I was feeling sorry for Alec Baldwin this morning. What, you can't chew out your daughter without the whole world talking about it? So I contacted Baldwin's agent, who arranged a two-minute interview. "Two minutes," said the agent, who strangely wouldn't provide me his name. "You go over that, Alec flies down there to straighten your ass out good."

Alec called five minutes later. I could hear New York traffic in the background.

"Do you consider what you said to your daughter abuse, because --"

I wanted to say that I didn't, but Baldwin was clearly wound up and interrupted me.

"You see this watch?" he asked.

I started to tell him no, because we were on the phone, but he bulled forward.

"That watch costs more than your car. I made $970,000 last year. How much you make? You see pal, that's who I am, and you're nothing. Nice guy, I don't give a shit. Good father, fuck you! Go home and play with your kids! You wanna work here, close! You think this is abuse? You think this is

abuse, you cocksucker?"

I thought I was being put on. He'd been in full damage control mode and now this? No way.

"Who is this really? What's your name?"

"FUCK YOU! That's my name," Baldwin blared into his cell phone. "You know why, mister? 'Cause you drove a Hyundai to get here tonight, and I drove an $80,000 BMW. That's my name! And your name is 'you're wanting.' And you can't play in a man's game. You can't close them, you go home and tell your wife your troubles. Because only one thing counts in this life! Get them to sign on the line which is dotted! You hear me, you fucking faggot?"

It sure as hell sounded like him.

"I'm not really enjoying your tone, Baldwin."

"You can't take this, Norman, how can you take the abuse you get on a sit? You can't close the leads you're given, you can't close shit, you are shit! Hit the bricks, pal, and beat it, 'cause you are going out! Oh, have I got your attention now?"

"To hell with this interview."

"You think I'm fucking with you? I'm not fucking with you. You call yourself a reporter, you son of a bitch? A B C. A-always. B-be. C-closing."

"What are you talking about? I don't have to take this garbage from you."

"You sure don't pal, 'cause the good news is -- you're fired!"

Then he hung up on me. One of the weirdest interviews I've ever had. Even weirder was the fact that he sent me a photo of himself from his cellphone two minutes later along with a message: "I'd wish you good luck but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it." I've reproduced the photo here.

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Journalist Bob Norman has been raking the muck of South Florida for the past 25 years. His work has led to criminal cases against corrupt politicians, the ouster of bad judges from the bench, and has garnered dozens of state, regional, and national awards.
Contact: Bob Norman

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