Ari Gold

All of you shut the fuck up.

Look, I only took the shrooms because Vinnie asked me to and I'd do anything for that stupid kid and I didn't want my client getting himself fucked up with only Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber and Hobo-the-fuckface-clown and Pizza-Boy-the-Wonder-Midget to look after him.  Bad things happen that way.

And yeah, I lied about being home but the sixty naked gay guys in the pool?  That was NOT my fault.  That was Lloyd being a cunt and the only reason he's not fired is because he's the only one who will answer the fucking bat phone on Christmas.  I had nothing to do with it, I was seeing monsters in the fucking desert at the time.

And then I slept with Dana Gordon.

...Wait.  No, I didn't.  Why the fuck would I say...

I DID NOT SLEEP WITH DANA GORDON.  RECENTLY.

See, City.  This is why you drink bottled water.  So that when the psychos who pass for the people in charge here put amphetamines in the local supply you aren't tempted to make nice with a rabid bear or your mother-in-law, whichever's more inclined to try and kill you at the time.

Yesterday was like a rave without the benefit of college girls in neon pants and candy bras.

For the record, I hate all of you.

My new best friend.  Hope you tarted yourself up more than usual, because we are heading somewhere fancy and kosher.  Bring your checkbook.

The rest of you, I'm going to need an assistant who isn't a complete fuck-up and can answer a goddamn phone 24/7.  Those of you who think you might be able to last a week without getting fired can leave me your resumes and I'll try not to wipe my ass with them.

Alright, you got me. 

Never thought I'd say this, but...

What I'd really like to do is go home and hammer the wife until she can't see straight, reiterate to my sweet baby girl the fact that she can't date until she's forty and menopausal, and bribe my son with transformers.

Barring that, I want somebody who can make a goddamn decent French roast.  The only thing the French ever did right and I can't find a barista with blue hair and tiny tits to make mine a Venti?  Who the fuck's hoarding all the coffee?

Okay.

I get that this is some fucked up Twilight Zone episode and that you're all magical fairies or bloodsucking rejects from films that Rob Zombie couldn't even bring himself to produce.

I get that there's this whole Hotel California deal going on and no one's leaving until the fat Golden Cows calling themselves deities say so.

I get that every couple of days, some horrible, unavoidable thing will happen to make me miserable, not that that isn't what happens usually anyway.

I even get that if you're in an apartment by yourself without Carmen Electra's tits to keep you company or whatever equivalent you've got going, you're going to hear an annoying ticking that won't. shut. up.

What I don't get is why you all actually believe this is really happening. Come on, this is ridiculous. Kubrick on acid wouldn't dream up half this shit.

Vince's long-lost twin, have you ever considered acting as a career? With a good agent you could go straight to the top. Just your luck, I happen to be the best.

This is the last time I go to the Valley when the fucking GPS is on the fritz. If I ever see the CEO of Magellen again I’m going to tie his cock in a knot so he can’t infect the world with his directionally-challenged sperm.

Lloyd, send a chopper, I need Search and Rescue to get me the hell out of whatever fucked up carnival this is before some midget clowns come along and try to rape me up the ass without calling E first for instructions—

Lloyd, answer the fucking phone. Lloyd.

…What the hell do I pay you for?