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.
.
