Eat Shit or Die

When I wasn't running halfway across the city to walk some cheeky fuckers dog, I met a old Uni acquaintance for a coffee (I wouldn't consider him a friend, but you got to stay in with these people in case they become a commissioner or something one day). He's not a runner, but a 'production assistant'; or should I say was.....

"I've been working for a so called documentary production company that churned out shit reality television like the world was going to end this Sunday. My first job was to create sales brochures for these 'ground breaking' shows (which was basically 'Supersize Me' in as many guises as they could think of), and churned out these worthless pieces of self fellating toss into the early hours of the morning to try and impress my new employers.

A week later I was done, brochures complete with perspex covers and the company logo daubed everywhere like a swastika, sat neatly on the tiny desk that was my 'workspace'. It was so fucking small that mien fucking fuhrer of a producer called it 'the shinebox'; and never tired of quoting that line from Goodfellas - the fucking cream pie.

Donning my north face to climb the everest of the staircase that led to the ivory tower known as the production office to deliver these beauties, I was met with a steely glare that was fixed on a empty space on the desk like Supermans eyes when he burns shit. I dropped my pile of brochures in front of him before being given the traditional 'leave' wave of the hand.

Two weeks went by before I begin to wonder why not one person had thanked me for my hard work. Finally, I got a call from my producer saying the MD wanted to see me. Finally! Some recognition for my talents. But all the cunt wanted me to do was clean his fucking office! And at 9pm at night as well!

It was only when I came back that evening that I spotted my brochures spread out on the coffee table and being on my own it would have been rude not to nose around the bastards personal stuff. With horror I realised that they all had different covers on them – fucking booshank ones made in 5 minutes in microshit word with my fucking producer’s name written across the bottom – the snake had claimed credit for all of my hard work!

I confronted him about this the next day and was simply told “Do not fucking complain to me that you can’t do your job properly! I take credit for the work, that’s the way its always been. You should know that!”

A week later I was sacked by email. So He-Man moral time, "Be prepared to either eat shit or die in this industry". Either that or have a trustfund to start your own production business, like those affluent bastards probably did in the first place".