bitch session re: publicists

I'm kinda off my whatsit, and bogged down with work and strife and hatred, or at least contempt, for Ms. XXXX XXXXX of XXXX XXX Records.
Wanna hear me bitch? No? Then scroll down, waaaay down, and I'll call Rusty.
So, like three weeks ago, I get some email saying that the punk rock band XXX XX will be playing in XXXXXX on such and such a date and that they've sent me a press kit, etc. Whatever, sure, fittybugs is fittybugs I always say. So we set up the interview for yesterday at 2:30.
I don't think about it again til I look at my desk calendar yesterday and see that some band I know nothing about and have (probably, I think they've been through before, but I really think that what currently passes for punk rock is possibly the nadir of youth culture, so I mighta heard, but not really cared to remember) never heard is gonna be calling in about an hour. So I whip off an email to Ms. XXXXX saying that there's no way I can do the interview without said promo material. Which is a lie, I've done lotsa int's with bands I've never heard, but I've been real bizzy with all these crummy XXX XXXXXX dinks, but I just don't think that these scuzzbucks are worth the added effort & imagination on my part. Plus, XXX XXXX Records is a very well-off record company, well-off 'nuff to have a fulltime publicist in the form of one Ms. XXX XXXXX, so they can damn well afford to send me their goddamn press kits.
So she calls me and she's all like "whaa whaa whaa" which was sort of like insinuating that it was my fault I hadn't rec'd the pkg she s'posed'lie sent out mid-July. And I'm like, "look, I'll give you two days, have them call me Friday, sametime."
She's like, "whaa-diddyi-whaa-wha-whaaaa."
And I'm like, "I've seen the webpage, it's got nil on it."
She's like, "whaa-whaa mp3's."
I'm all, "fine, whatev." Even though I don't do mp3's.
Mostly cuz you can't put on punk rock, even shitty punk rock in the midst of a bizzy noozrewm, and even more mostly cuz I don't have a soundcard on my fittybugs laptop chez moi. But I've had enough o'her and don't really feel like splaynin nut'n to her.
Then, this m-o-r-n, Mr. Big Shot XXXXXX comes and basically reiterates what Ms. XXX XXXXXX told me, etc. etc. my fault, diddly-whaa shoulda called her sooner.
So obviously, Ms. XXXX XXXX called Mr. Big Shot XXXXXX and bitched about me. As if he's my boss. (He ain't--not really, sorta, but only when it benefits him, not when it benefits me, dig?)
So now, I'm all, shit. I don't OWE this band any coverage. First of all, if they're on XXXXX XXXX Records, they probably blowbigchunks. Second, their fans prawly can't read too good neither. So, like, a newspaper article wuh-hunt do 'em no good atall.
The thing is, esp. in this town, and in rock-write/ento-journo in general (but this town, this country esp.) the journos think they work for the PR shits. And maybe, a lot of 'em do. Like the ones (like Mr. Big Shot XXXXXX) who get lotsa free stuff.
But me, I donna work fuh nibbidy. I donna git nae free booty, nae free lunches, nae nathang. So, like, I'm totally off the hook to these bastiches who think they c'n push me around. They got no leverage.
Whattatheygonnado? Take me off they mailing list? I ain't on it.
If anyone, I write fuh rockaro-o-o-oll. And for fittybugs.
So, like, I'm off woik tomorrow fifteen minutes before this scuzzbuck band is s'poseta call, so I might actually, y'know, GO HOME. Y'know, where I BELONG.
And, uh, what's the expression, let'em howl.