I WOULD LIKE TO REPORT AN UNNATURAL SHUNNING.
I would never dream of being judgmental, but today in New York City I experienced something that I have never experienced in all my years in the entertainment industry. Even during the 1970s when my involvement with the entertainment industry was limited to being a sexually aggressive 40 year old man who groped women in trailers in return for getting them bit parts in movies that were actually just set ups for muggings when I sent them to see "my people" down one dark alley or another. "Good luck, ladies," I would tell them and then I would call down the dogs. So much fun.
Today I was supposed to appear before an enthusiastic young crowd at Connelly Dodge Hall on Broadway of my poetry collection, I Get Hard As a Rock Imagining Germany Rising Again. This collection of reflections on my youth and the wonders of growing up under the tutelage of a sadistic creep posing as my father in Germany (when it was one country instead of cut in half by the enemy as it is now) is one of my finest works. Random House gave me a 12 figure advance on it, one trillion dollars, which is unheard of money for a debut poetry book of 12 pages these days. I get that kind of money. I get Brad Pitt money. You should be giving me a lap dance with NO panties on nightly and you KNOW it. Boy or girl, this lap is waiting, sweet cheeks, and I have seriously the roamingest of roaming hands you have EVER seen.
So, I got to the theatre and there were just some degenerate broom guys (what I call losers who sweep arenas and do other monkey jobs) there. I didn't even have a makeup and hair lady in my dressing room, and then I went out and the theatre was empty. 16,354 tickets were sold. Explain THAT.
What this was is clear. IT WAS A SHUNNING driven by the liberal media to shame me and my work.
Tonight, I am returning to the theatre triumphantly and defiantly. Please show up to support me. I am hoping to have a large crowd to stick it in the media's face and then proceed to read to you all 12 pages of my book of poetry while your most beloved lover or vulnerable family member sits on my lap and I gently brush her hair with my massive, Ural Mountains bred hands.
Please come.