shit fuck bitches

From the very beginning rasmussen and I had had our grievances. Had it not been for the fact that I had to keep quiet in order to placate an entire production that would go belly-up if I caused any trouble, the altercation would have happened much sooner. It would have happened the moment he frequently depicted the character meaning to depict me, in the movie going under my alias, Baxter Poirdex, using bathrobes, despite the fact that I had never, and had always crossly refused to. This was something that Rasmussen knew, because I had spoken to him, at great length, before the production. I tolerated the majority of the spiteful goings-on at the set. I tolerated the bathrobe incident, the white denim incident, and so forth. What truly drove me over the edge was his depiction of the Los Angeles DEA Anti-Drug panel, where I had pulled up in a stolen racecar, scantly dressed, speaking in a breathy voice, frothing it all up in front of the officers. Unlike the smaller details that Rasmussen had blithely slipped in, this was absolute slander. Even the actress was warily eyeing me the entire time, and passively asking Rasmussen if this scene were truly necessary, given that it was a biopic that strived to be as accurate as possible. Given that I was there, co-directing, this should have been no problem.