sixwordstories | (no subject)

Not me. Right. Right?

Are you the fuckwad that was supposed to bring me my fucking diet pepsi?

That pasty director got a man feeling down. Can't act with his pale ass tail-gating me.

Sounds like a personal problem.

Ain't nothing personal about it. Yah are the mutha fucka hiring these fakers. I can't work in this environment!

And I'm the one who says it's okay to give you your fucking paycheck, dickhead. Grow a pair of fucking balls and suck it up!

Please let it be Kirk. That dumb motherfucker doesn't even know where he's at half the time.

As long as an Oscar-worthy movie gets made out of this bullshit, I don't give a flying fuck about whatever pussy mental problems he's dealing with.

Man, I wrote the book on pussy but I ain't ever heard of no pussy mental problems. Is that some kind of disease that keeps a brother from sealing the deal?

. . .

I'd like to believe you're not that fucking retarded— and then I remember all the shitheads that are on that set along with you.

~~Kyle?~~ ~~Keith?~~ Kevin?

Did you just pull a random name out of your ass or what? If I was firing him, every single one of you fuckwads would be going with him. No, infact, you'd already be long fucking GONE.

And um... who would that be?

It'll be you if you don't get your ass back to work and make a MOVIE, you dickless fuck!

We're working! In fact we're right on schedule, Mr. Grossman. Thank you for checking in.

As "right on schedule" as you were when you blew up your fucking set?

...

Well...we can go back and green screen that bit.