A Short List Of Things Zach Bryan Could Do To Me For $12 Million
Scott Legato. Getty Images.In last night's explosive episode of BFFs, it was revealed that Brianna Chickenfry turned down a $12 million hush money settlement from Zach Bryan. Many of us who heard this number immediately thought what on earth could this guy have done that he'd be willing to pay $12 million to keep it secret?
Not me. My mind went to this thought: what could Zach Bryan do to me that I'd keep secret in exchange for $12 million?
First, the math. It looks like NDA settlements are considered taxable by the IRS. That seems pretty weird to me, considering that personal injury settlements and divorce settlements are NOT taxable. Maybe a good lawyer would argue that emotional abuse that leads to an NDA settlement is akin to personal injury, but I struggle to see why settlements of any kind should be taxable. Clearly, these people went through something horrible to earn that money. The government did not experience that horror. Let the victims/defendants keep it all, no? The libertarian in me stirs…
Thus, let's presume that a $12 million settlement is whittled down to about $7 million after taxes and the lawyer takes his/her cut. Then let's set aside $1 million for fun money: equities, real estate, toys, travel, restaurants, whatever you like. Just play money. Hell, bankroll Mintzy for a run at the WSOP Main Event. You truly can afford to lose it. Why?
Because your remaining $6 MILLION, invested incredibly conservatively in treasury bonds alone, is yielding about $280,000 annually. That's your gravy! Without invading your principle, you get to ball out on a $280,000 salary without fear of losing… any of your money. Of course you'll want to diversify a bit and take on some risk, especially as a young person, but good golly can you live a great life on that settlement.
All of which is to say there is a long, darkly imaginative list of things that Zach Bryan, or any country/soul star could do to me, of which I'd never utter a WORD, in exchange for $12 million. Off the top of my head, a few ideas that come to mind:
1) Gently Finagle The Tuning-End Of Your Guitar Into My Rectum
I don't know how this would work logistically. I think you'd have to sort of wiggle it from side to side, like trying to slide an area rug under a bed. The tuning knobs would be a tough hurdle, but that's why there's a wooden soup ladle between my teeth. It's how doctors on old wooden warships would mitigate the pain of non-anesthetized amputations for their patients. I saw it in Master and Commander once.
He could even try to play it once it's in. I suspect the tightness of my sphincter around the strings would act like a capo off which he could play bar chords, but I don't think we're getting the neck too far in. Probably an F-major or MAYBE F sharp at BEST. Depends on what I ate that day.
2) No Air-Conditioning For The Rest Of My Life
I'm thinking about what I consider to be life's biggest problems. Not having working AC in a hotel room, or when it inevitably breaks down in the summer in my apartment, is right up there. The physical discomfort that comes from being hot and sticky when you're trying to sleep? Fucking stick a guitar up my ass instead. Even so, I believe I'd find some measure of comfort in fanning myself with the crisp, fanned-out stack of hundreds I keep handy to tip the UberEats guys who arrive at my door at two-hour intervals. That's right, we're on a carousel of deliveries and snacks. They say a healthy diet is made of lots of smaller meals throughout the day. Can't go too long without food; I've got generational wealth to grow.
3) Become A Mover
This one was close. But I actually think I would willingly commit myself to being a professional mover, at least on a part-time basis, in exchange for $12 million. It's the hardest job I can think of, and the one I would want to do the least. Because I've moved myself so many goddamn times around this stupid fucking city and each time I do it, I tell myself never again. Then my lease runs out two years later and my neighbor turned out to be an aspiring slam poet who practices with his mouth to my wall at 2AM and I don't have a choice. So it's time to box it all up again and prep for that worst day of all days: moving day.
Twice a week at most. A side-hustle. No walkups. It's unlikely a moving company would hire me under these parameters, but those are my terms and if they don't work, fuck you. Because my $12 million was paid up front. Bye.
Ok last thought: Brianna not taking the money means she is 1,000x the person I will ever be—her character, her moral compass, her sense of self, her belief in her future, all that. I just don't know how on earth you don't take it, but I guess that's why she's a megastar and I'm writing a blog about how I'd let her ex shove his guitar up my ass for the money.