INT. DAY. It is early morning — the sun is coming in through the window. CHANNING TATUM is asleep in bed, one foot hanging over the edge. He is wearing oversized blue footie pajamas — NOT a Snuggie; old-fashioned footie pajamas with the buttons in the back — and snoring gently. MARK RUFFALO climbs in through the window.

MARK RUFFALO: Channing. Channing. [No response. He nudges CHANNING gently.] Hey, Channing.

[He nudges CHANNING less gently this time, who rolls off the bed and onto the floor.]

CHANNING TATUM [blearily, as if still half-asleep]: Whozzat. m’fight you. Fight you in the…face. Mmf.

MARK RUFFALO: You have to get up, Channing Tatum. We’re best friends, and today is fox-catching day.

CHANNING TATUM: Oh, shit.

[CHANNING leaps up and executes a series of flawless air kicks.]

CHANNING TATUM: Lemme just put on my good track pants. It’s time to do some…

[Screen fades to black]

FOXCATCHING

EXT. DAY. MARK and CHANNING are sprinting merrily through the woods, giggling and leaping over one another and talking about their feelings. There is a beautiful red fox in the distance with a puffy tail.

MARK RUFFALO: What are you going to do with your fox once you catch it?

CHANNING TATUM: I’m not sure. I mean, cuddle the shit out of the little dude, for sure, at least at first. But I dunno what I’ll do, like, forever with him, fox-wise. Lemme think about it. [CHANNING removes his shirt and shoes.]

MARK RUFFALO: What are you doing?

CHANNING TATUM: This helps me think. Someone told me that taking your shirt and shoes off helps you think better.

MARK RUFFALO: I’ve never heard that before.

CHANNING TATUM: Really? People tell me that, like, all the time.

MARK RUFFALO: I think maybe people just tell you that to get you to take your shirt off.

CHANNING TATUM: You think so?

MARK RUFFALO: I think maybe they are not being honest with you.

CHANNING TATUM: Thanks, Mark.

[He does not put his shirt back on.]

CHANNING TATUM: You’re my best friend.

MARK RUFFALO: I love catching foxes and not getting shot with you.

CHANNING TATUM: And I love that you have a full, luxurious head of hair, and not a close-cropped balding wig.

MARK RUFFALO: Huh. Me too, I guess.

CHANNING TATUM: Oh shit, oh shit, Mark, there he is! There’s that little fox dude! I’m gonna catch the shit out of him!

[CHANNING leaps and pirouettes over a series of brambles in his pursuit of the fox, tearing his good track pants into a pair of track shorts.]

MARK RUFFALO: Wait up!

[MARK sprints after CHANNING, using pretty much all of his muscles, and the two of them tumble over the fox, rolling head over tail over toes into a clearing. They start laughing as the fox flicks its puffy white tail at them.]

CHANNING TATUM: Holy shit, this fox has a puffy tail! Look at how puffy his little tail is, dude!

MARK RUFFALO: I feel like I can tell you anything, Channing.

CHANNING TATUM: TICKLE FIGHT!

[MARK RUFFALO pulls out a set of squirt guns from his upscale track pants, which are somehow both comfy-looking and also classy and also you can see just a little bit of the outline of his dick, nothing obscene, very tasteful, and points them sideways at CHANNING TATUM.]

CHANNING TATUM: Oh, shit, Ruffalo!

[The squirt guns are full of jelly. The fox romps playfully over both of them, happily licking jelly out of their hair.]

MARK RUFFALO [suddenly]: Were we supposed to be somewhere today?

INT. DAY. STEVE CARELL sits forlornly at a table with three scripts in front of him. AN ASSISTANT pokes her head in the door.

ASSISTANT: Can I get you anything, Mr. Carell?

STEVE CARELL: No, I — I don’t need anything, I guess. [to himself] I guess I got the days wrong.

EXT. DAY. The woods.

CHANNING TATUM: All this jelly makes wrestling really slippery.

MARK RUFFALO: You’re just saying that because you’re losing.

[Image via Darth]