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Werner Herzog had decided to assume the mantle of Tortured European Director Whose English Is Remarkably Lucid Albeit Bizarre without consulting the current master, Lars Von Trier. But his guilt had gotten the better of him, so he decided to place a call.

"Lars. Before you say anything, I believe there is something of which you must be made aware."

"Werner...I detect an air of confrontation in your tone, somewhat akin to that of a librettist I once employed for..."

"Lars, please. I beseech you. I was at first unwilling to comply with their requests, but it seemed that my heart had been ruptured by forces inclined to create a Rilke-like fantasy upon which you and I, as contemporaries, are meant to coexist. I could not but reënter this realm of television correspondent were I to..."

Lars slammed the phone onto the receiver. After a few moments of contemplation, he decided to do nothing. To confront Werner and engage in a fistfight would merely be superficial action according to the dictates of Dogme. Besides -- it wouldn't be improvised, which was crucial.

Lars grabbed the remote and starting flipping through the stations to pass the time. He stumbled upon VH1's I Love the 80's, and much to his chagrin, there was Werner, contemplating the genesis of Thompson Twins:

"Is it but a coincidence that twins such as these no longer exist? I think not. It was 1984, and certainly Orwellian practices began to prevail -- thus rendering the twins as an altogether predictable manifestation..."

Lars couldn't take it. He began hurling Danish invectives towards the screen before unzipping his pants and inscribing remarkably symmetrical shapes on his carpet in urine.

"Where is my camera? WHERE IS MY CAMERA?!?"