So I was talking with my broker the other day — just the usual small talk, you know … how’s the kids, how’s the family, all that. And I’m all like, “life’s good, bro … just playing some golf, raping my daughter I keep chained up in the dungeon, living the dream.” And he’s all like, “What?” And then it dawns on me: this prick thinks I’m like, a monster or something.
[motioning off camera] Hold on, sweetie. I’ll be there in a sec. Don’t move or I swear to fucking God I will choke you out and stuff you back in your crate.
So, you know — I’m just wondering: who’s side is he on here? I mean, he’s MY broker. And yet, he doesn’t give me any credit. Because c’mon, let’s face it: I could’ve just killed my daughter and our seven little incestuous rape children and nobody would’ve been the wiser. But you know what? I didn’t. I took the high road. And yet, from my broker — no love. Nothing. Zip. Nada. And I’M the monster??? Pfffft.
I don’t know. It’s just frustrating.