A Day in the Life of My Publicist

Posted: September 29, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All

I have a publicist. His name is Ken. He is bald. He also has a great bohemian office with a really comfortable couch somewhere in downtown LA which is where I found myself waiting for him, sans shoes, when I was greeted by these words:

“MiB, what the fuck is this?”

“That, my good man, is a Facebook friend request. I’m surprised – as my publicist, a knowledgeable groovy, bald-headed suit like yourself should be acquainted with such digital bonds of friendship. What the hell do I not pay you for?”

He grunted and sat down behind his giant bohemian desk. He’s quite a bohemian man, Ken.

“I know what it is, you munt. Fucking hell, I go to Poland for two weeks sabbatical and my entire clientele shits the bed. I’ve got you poking me on one end, the Achy Breaky Tart twerking her way through Tinseltown on the other and fucking Kanye having a Twitter tantrum against Jimmy Kimmel because he doesn’t understand the concept of satire.”

“Well, we are talking about a man that named his offspring after a jazz album.”

Who knew Kanye was such an Elvis Costello fan?

Who knew Kanye was such an Elvis Costello fan?

“Besides, what the fuck are you on about? Kanye and Kimmel aren’t your clients.”

“Not any more, they aren’t. Conflict of interest states that I’m going to have to dump one of their black asses if I’m going to save the other.”

“Well, I guess Wheezy Yeezy can consider his ‘black ass’ kicked to the curb.”

“Ah, but you consider wrong. Whilst Kanye might think that leather jogging pants are the best thing since Kanye, he’s a goddamn prodigy. Yeezus was hailed as a “chutzpah classic” and a “brilliant, obsessive-compulsive career auto-correct”. It debuted at #1 in 34 countries. He’s got 21 Grammys – which is incredible – and claims to have fucked 24 grammies including mine, which is slightly less incredible. Say what you like about Kanye, but the man is a creative genius and he fucking sells.

Kimmel, on the other hand, is a two-bit rip-off of David Letterman. Jay Leno is funnier than him, and breast cancer is funnier than Jay Leno. I’ve watched better talk shows on Cartoon Network. He has less than a third of Kanye’s Twitter followers. I’ve had kettles that could outwit him. For fuck’s sake, the man was bested by a stationary car. So I’m gonna have to side with Kanye on this one.”

photo 2

“Well, Ken, you just made the best choice of all time! OF ALL TIME! By the way, who the fuck goes to Poland to relax? What exactly were you doing there, Ken? Moonlighting as an albino gigolo? I hear the Poles like skinheads. Good thing you’re not circumcised then, hey? Go on, I won’t judge.”

“I was getting laid and getting paid, two things that you know a sum total of fuckall about.”

“Woah, calm your Farmville man. That was a good insult though. Very witty. I think I might be getting a broner from just how amazing that was.”

“A what?”

“A broner. A non-sexual male-inspired boner. Watch some Californication once in a while, you damn Luddite. Also, you’re fired.”

“Well, that’s just fine and fucking dandy by me, since you’ve brought in less money than a charity for Al-Qaeda. Let’s see just how far you get without a fucking publicist. You might even end up paying WordPress to host a blog that you rarely write for – oh wait…”

“You make a compelling case. You’re hired.”

“I thought so. Now would you mind telling me why in the name of Mark Fuckerburg I have a friend request from you on Facebook?”

I shifted around uneasily on the couch.

“Ah. That. Well, you see, I thought that it would be a good way to ‘get myself out there’. Let the fans get to know me for who I am. Make a few friends here, poke a few people there, drive a poor fat teenage girl to suicide somewhere else. Good idea, no?”

“MiB. We know who you are. You’re a cunt. You’re not only a cunt. You’re an asshole too. And a dick. In fact, you’re a cunt and an asshole and a dick and the tiny piece of skin between these assorted genitalia on whatever poor godforsaken hermaphrodite I’m comparing you to at the moment. We know this. We accept this. We love this.”

“It’s called the perineum, I believe.”


“The space between the asshole and the dick-slash-cunt. The correct biological term for such anatomy is the perineum. Highly erogenous zone too, I’ve been told.”

“You can take my word for it. Your girlfriend does a remarkably good job tonguing mine every night.”

“Hold up a second, Ken, can you hear that? Just listen for a sec – it sounds like the sea… Jesus Ken, it’s coming from your pants! Not only do you have sand in your vagina, it seems like you have an entire fucking ocean down there!”

“Well played.”

“Thank you. You might want to close your legs though, I think I see Willy trying to get free.”

“Charming. But let’s get serious for a moment – you just told me that you got Facebook to ‘make friends and poke people’, correct?”


“Right. You do realize that your entire persona, up to this present moment in time, is based on you hating every form of social media ever invented?”

“Well, yes-“

“Christ, do you remember what happened the last time you ventured into social media? Has your anal cavity recovered from Trevor’s Torpedo? No wonder you’re lying on the couch, you probably still can’t stand up straight.”

“I’ll have you know that Trevor is a remarkably affectionate and caring lover. He just slides right in. We’re very happy together.”

“Good to know. I’ll have Martha send over some roses and Astroglide.”

“Much obliged. But to be perfectly honest and somewhat plagiaristic: the times, they are a-changing. Writers live to be read. Having someone tell you that your writing is good is one of the best feelings in the world – on par with having your perineum played with. It hits all the pleasure centres; it’s positively rhapsodic. I need more people to see what a rockstar writer and generally awesome human being I am. Facebook is a means to getting my shit out there, to put on display all these brilliant little turds of writing that I’m so proud of. It’s the way to show the world that I’m the Hank Moody of my generation.”

“You’re the Hank Moody of staying sober and keeping it in your pants.”

“And you’re bald. Now who’s worse off?”

“Still you, mate. Well, I can see where you’re coming from-“

“Is it North West?”

“-and whilst I think you, by some incredible stroke of luck, may be able to pull it off, I still don’t see why you didn’t ask me before starting an account and then posting a shitty-ass picture of you at Sensation White.”

“But you were off getting your heads polished by the Polish, Ken. Besides, I thought it would be a good avenue of self-promotion and whatnot.”

“Self-promotion? Why the fuck would you hire me if you’re so good at promoting yourself, Ari Gold?”

“You make a valid point. Congratulations Ken, you’ve just fired yourself. Go on, give yourself a pat on your shiny white pate.”

“Fuck you MiB. Fuck you and your cocky attitude and smart-ass comments. Nobody gives a fuck that you made it into Mensa and taught yourself how to fingerbang a Rubik’s cube. People don’t give a fuck about that or your lamentations on LO and Lebanon. You know what’s wrong with the world today?”

I got up from the couch, walked over slowly, looked him straight in the eye and said, solemnly:

“Bald people, I suppose.”

Then I gave him a hug and a rub on the head for good luck and ran out of his office as fast as I could.

[Well, there you have it. I am now on the Facebook. I am also on the Twitter. My the Twitter is @MibHatesUsAll. Fuck yeah. The Social Media is my bitch]


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