Voice Mail #1: Tuesday, June 26, 8:02 a.m.:

Look, I didn't realize you wanted me to write this shit out. Like a chump. What am I, fucking Shakespeare? How about I speak this and you write it out? How's that for you? Maybe if you fucking jackasses wrote like people talked, your whole industry wouldn't be going down the shitter. I have made an ass of myself trying to get to a phone because of your quote-unquote deadlines and you can't be bothered to pick up? I had a sweet contract for a Skippy peanut butter ad all locked up, but I probably blew it because of this stupid fucking, what do you call it? You have made an ass out of me for the first and last time—

Voice Mail #2: Tuesday, June 26, 8:05 a.m.:

Pick up the goddamn phone. Your voice mail hung up on me. You got a call coming in—you think I made it because I've got nothing better to do? I could be shouting shit at random people on the street, but I'm calling you. I don't care about your deadlines, are you man enough to pick up the phone? I'm a good Public Editor and you're a pig. I don't give a shit. Good Public Editor. And you're a—

Voice Mail #3: Tuesday, June 26, 8:07 a.m.:

Are you serious? Again? Hire a fucking secretary. And some fucking writers. Who write about things that people give a shit about. Instead, we get this goddamn thing called "Seattle's Best Christians." I don't know if it's a Seattle's Best Coffee joke or serious or what, but it's a bunch of dipshits and it's boring. You're flipping the script now? Look how unpredictable we are! First a bunch of queers, then a bunch of Christians! Edgy? More like pathetic. "Some people are good, sometimes"—great insight, asshole. Then I turn the page and BRENDAN KILEY's talking about ukuleles for five-fucking-thousand words or whatever? What a pussy. Learn how to play a—

Voice Mail #4: Tuesday, June 26, 8:25 a.m.:

—fucking CIENNA MADRID! And now she's blabbing about toplessness? Last week's news, assholes! It's like the horse is dead and beaten and you just pull out your cocks and—

Voice Mail # 5: Tuesday, June 26, 11:18 a.m.:

You think this is abuse? You think this is abuse, you thoughtless pains in the ass? Get mad, you sons of bitches. Get mad. I can take it. You know what it takes to answer my call? It takes brass balls to answer my call. The phone is ringing, you pick it up. It's yours. You don't, I got no sympathy for you. I'd wish you good luck, but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it. Pig. Oh, also, tell your mother I said, "Go fuck yourself." This is Barry, ring me back when you get a chance. recommended