Upon request he had his producer forward him the email concerning his apparently offensive social media activity. The worst bits of his blog and facebook postings had been cut and pasted out of context into one long email. It read like the disjointed internal monologue of a psychopath. He had to admit, he was quite proud of it. One of the main points of contention was a review he had written of a review that had been written about one of his shows. It had been a good show, but the review had been negative because the reviewer quite obviously did not get it, or as he had put it in his review of the review, the reviewer was ‘a stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about and I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.’
But something was amiss. After some quick research, it turned out that the social media coordinator for ABC TV was a douchebag the comedian had gotten into a pathetic facebook argument over regarding said review of a review, a few months previously. For legal reasons, the comedian could not disclose the social media coordinator’s real name so he referred to him by the moniker, ‘LUKE BUCKMASTER IS HIS REAL NAME AND HE IS A PIECE OF SHIT.’ Aka Puke Fucked Bastard. He was the social media coordinator- someone who was paid taxpayers money to go on facebook and twitter. How much more of an unnecessary human being could you be? To summarise the petty facebook fight, Puke Fucked Bastard had missed the point of the comedian’s piece and thought that instead of being a comedian writing from an edgy and offensive (to some) comedic point of view, he’d had been absolutely genuine and literal and blah blah blah the comedian called Puke Fucked Bastard the term ‘faggot’ many times, not for any homophobic reasons, but because it upset Puke Fucked Bastard and the comedian enjoyed upsetting him. Puke Fucked Bastard then defriended him, and after ten million tears were shed, the comedian moved on with his life. It seemed highly likely that Puke Fucked Bastard was behind all of this because it was this review of a review that was the main focus of the email that had been sent around detailing his offensive social media activities, even though a blog detailing a masturbation fantasy involving Tony Abbott having his ears and genitals cut off with a butchers knife and then bludgeoned to death and fed to sharks did not warrant a mention. It also turned out that the social media coordinator was a cocaine addict which is obviously someone you would want at the helm of a major networks social media site and the comedian sincerely hoped the next line he snorted would make his heart explode like a teenagers uterus at a Justin Beiber’s concert you despicable pointless stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.
The next day his ex-producer called him up,
‘Have you signed that contract yet?’
‘I’m not signing it.’
‘There are all these confidentiality clauses in it which say i can’t talk about anything to do with the show or my termination which is counterproductive because i intend to write a fringe show and a story about it.’ He didn’t say.
‘I don’t feel like it.’ He said instead.
‘Don’t you want the money?’
‘Not as bad as i want to not get fucked.’ he thought.
He read over the contract for the 50th time. It was written in terrible English. Triple negatives, overlapping clauses etc… Designed to be impenetrable to the average schmuck reading it, to allow for maximum penetration from the fuckers trying to fuck him. The comedian needed professional help.
As stated before, except for prostitution, there was no business like showbusiness, but now it seemed the lawbusiness bore many similarities. $300 an hour was the cost to hire a lawyer, roughly the same price as a mid-range comedian, prostitute or combined comedian/prostitute.
Unfortunately, due to his dismissal, he had zero dollars in his bank account, as his last bank transfer had gone through for rent. He had no choice but to liquidate his assets. At the time, the only assets he had was an ounce of high-grade organic cherry bomb marijuana and 2 grams of crystal dimethyltryptamine.
The comedian went to his local 2 dollar shop and pointed to the small plastic baggies behind the counter that were commonly used to hold contraband.
‘I’ll take those please.’ He asked the Chinese lady behind the counter. She frowned suspiciously.
‘What? They are for uhh… Buttons.’ he said unconvincingly. He walked up and down the main street trying to find a shop that sold digital scales. Eventually he ended back at the two dollar shop again eyeing some scales that were semi-hidden behind the counter. ‘I’ll take those please.’ he asked the Chinese lady. She frowned suspiciously.
‘What? They are for uhhh… Weighing the buttons.’ he said unconvincingly. Why should she judge him for buying the products she stocked? Then he realised she wasn’t frowning at him because of his actions, she had always been frowning because she was horrifically unhappy with her life.
‘How ironic.’ the comedian thought as he weighed and bagged up the weed into $20 and $50 bags and the DMT into 1/8 and 1/4g bags to pay for his legal fees. He made a few calls and business was open. Drug dealing was by far the best job he’d ever had. The hours were great, you could get high on the job, you got to hang out with interesting people… It didn’t seem like work. The drug dealer even gave himself a raise for making enough money to pay for a months rent and a lawyer very quickly, much quicker then when he was a comedian or a call centre operator living the dream.
The lawyer advised the drug dealer that he didn’t have to sign the contract. But to get the termination pay out, he had to at least write an email saying that he would not discuss what had happened. So he wrote an email stating that he would not discuss any details concerning the show or how he had been dismissed, which as you can see he has since upheld to the best of his abilities.
Two days later, $3000 magically appeared in his bank account. He bought a house special breakfast and then later a Halloumi burger with the works for lunch that day.
Four weeks later, the drug dealer/comedian was at his friend’s house, who owned one of those flashing things he didn’t watch, watching the show that he’d been fired from. He had his pen and pad ready to write some disparaging jokes about what he was about to see. He had been replaced by an attractive non-ethnic lady who said unfunny lines like she believed in them to an adequate level and didn’t look at all like Danny Devito, much less than he did at least. The show was such a mediocre non-event that by the end, his pad was still blank, blank as the wall behind the TV screen that was far more entertaining than the show on the flashing box in front of it that he’d just watched.
It suddenly hit him that being fired from the show was probably the best thing that could of happened. He’d dodged a bullet. He hadn’t compromised his artistic integrity to be a part of a mediocre product, he had learnt a lot about contract law, his experiences had inspired a lot of material and finally, he had discovered his true calling as a drug dealer.