You know what? Stop it. Fuck you.
The past couple of weeks, I have been getting calls from people, earnestly asking me whether or not Rocky will be the next NSTP GEIC. That's Group-Editor-in-Chief, yo!
Well, how the FUCK should I know? When the fuck did I become Rocky's PA? And if so, where's my pay?
Idiot: Well? Is he? Is he?
Me: Mmmmm...yeah. Yeah. He's definitely negotiating for higher pay now. You should kiss his ass. Send him a big motorcycle. And send him laptops. And maybe an SUV. Oh, and send him money. Maybe he'll write something good about your shitty company. Asshole.
And this, THIS has been going on for all year:
Idiot: Will Rocky be at the Press Club tonight?
WHAT? THE FUCK? DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
I don't hang around the club like some fucking GRO. Do I look like Stephen?
Me: Aw, tonight's Thursday, right? Nah, he'll be doing his Chippendale thing at BSC.
Idiot: Really?
Me: Yeah, man. I bought him a bow-tie last Christmas. But keep it hush-hush. It's Rocky's private vice.
Idiot: Oh, yeah, yeah. Sure, man. Hey, thanks a lot.
Me: No worries.
Questions.
"If Rocky goes back to NSTP, will you go back?"
Ugh.
Dude, seriously, I have a life. I may want it to end sandwiched by two twin virgins near ground zero of a nuclear blast, at the moment of orgasm, but I still do.
Why don't you get one too?
