imagine being ben in that scene and having to be all like "damn, bro, you fuckin' fine, all sexy with your pudgy body and horrific bloated monster face. i would totally debate with you, both my character and the real me." when all he really wants to do is fuck his sister in his dressing room. like seriously imagine having to be ben and not only sit in that chair while bro flaunts "his" disgusting body in front of you, the favorable lighting barely concealing "his" zipper tits and pockmarked skin, and just sit there, take after take, hour after hour, while "he" perfected that rant. not only having to tolerate "his" monstrous fucking visage but "his" haughty attitude as everyone on set tells "him" "he's" still got it and damn, ftms looks like that?? because they're not the ones who have to sit there and watch "his" mannish fucking gremlin face contort into types of grimaces you didn't even know existed before that day. you've been debating nothing but a healthy diet of mtfs and liberals and later alleged groomers for your entire career coming straight out of the desert in israel. you've never even seen anything this fucking disgusting before, and now you swear you can taste the sweat that's breaking out on "his" descended stomach as "he" pushes it out to writhe it suggestively at you, smugly assured that you are enjoying the opportunity to get paid to sit there and revel in "his" "statuesque (for that is what "he" calls "himself")" masculinity, the masculinity "he" worked so hard for with hormone replacement in the previous years. and then the director calls for another take, and you know you could kill every single person in this room before the studio security could put you down, but you sit there and endure, because you're fucking ben. you're not going to lose your future political career over this. just bear it. hide your face and bear it.
Jihadi