Yes, So I Was Off By A Week

The astute amongst you -- and it should be noted that I have my doubts as to whether any blog readers can claim that quality -- will recall that I said my brother Roderick, his family, and my mother were arriving last Wednesday for Thanksgiving. Turns out I had my dates mixed up, as they actually arrived earlier today. Which makes a lot more sense when you think about it.

Either way, they're here till Saturday. Which means the next three days are going to suck long, and they will suck hard. The only saving grace is that Roderick's oldest daughter, Tabitha, is developing quite nicely. But get your minds out of the gutter. I don't want to perform coitus on the lass. I just want to ogle her a bit. No crime in that, friends.

For christ's sake. Mother just shit herself, spoiling my fine Corinthian leather sofa in the process. When is that woman going to die and stop making my life a living hell? Oh well; time for me to rouse the houseboy. Hell, you don't expect me to clean it up, do you? After all, I have company to entertain.

If There's One Thing I Hate, It's My Family

Yeah, yeah, so I haven't updated in over a week. So what.

In case you hadn't noticed, the country went to hell in a hand basket last Tuesday. As a result, I've had bigger things on my mind. Like the hit my lifestyle's going to take once the democrats get their goddamn tax machines up and running. Or how I'm going to hold onto all my cheap labor after they re-tighten their regulatory screws. I mean, shit, do you have any idea what it costs to hire an American houseboy? Plenty, that's what.

As if that wasn't misery enough, today I got a telegram from my brother Roderick, reminding me that it's my turn to host Thanksgiving. He says he'll be here Wednesday night. Plus, he's bringing his cunt wife and their shit-eating kids. And, oh yeah, mother.

So there goes my weekend. Here's hoping your's will be just as shitty.

That's What I Call Shrewd Corporate Synergy

He may be the first Republican president in history for whom I wouldn't take a bullet, but I gotta hand it to Dubya -- he knows how to pull the strings. Or at least, he's just smart enough to let Cheney and Rove pull the strings for him. Take their latest coup: the announcement of Saddam Hussein's long-awaited death sentence, just two days before our hotly contested mid-term elections.

Frankly, I couldn't have planned it better myself. Unless they don't arrange to have Hussein hung tomorrow evening on live national prime time television, which is how I would play it. Ha! Those stupid democrats wouldn't know what hit them come Tuesday. They'd probably all turn to cannibalism and hard drugs by three o'clock in the afternoon, pissing their pants in shame as we proud Republicans whipped them down Main Street for being the whiny little shits that they are.

Alright, I'm outta here. Me and some of the boys from the office are going to drive through poor neighborhoods, so we can post fliers reminding the residents to come out and vote on Wednesday, November 8. Sure it's an old trick. We'll stop using it as soon as it stops A) working and B) pissing off the liberal media. In other words, no time soon.

My Eyes Are Bleeding

Oh dear sweet jesus, never in my life have I been as hungover as I am on this most horrible of mornings. It's as if my head has been forcibly shoved into a feverish horse's rectum, while a fat man in lederhosen repeatedly bangs the outer rump with a Louisville Slugger. Nightmarish, to say the least.

I can only hope that last night's festivities made today's hell worthwhile. Given the lack of whores in my bed when I woke up, I have my doubts.

Don't Nobody Go In The Bathroom For 35, 45 Days

Good god. I'm actually ashamed of myself. Myself and the 20-pound brown baby boy I just dropped off at the pool, if you get my drift. If you don't, I mean I just took a shit large enough to choke a horse. Hear me now?

Don't get me wrong -- I love a good shit. Moreover, few do it better or with more regularity than yours truly. But some things were never meant to see the light of day. And that... that... monstrosity I just left in the bathroom? It's one of them.

Double damn. My houseboy, Kang, just walked past the bathroom door and dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. Here's hoping smelling salts will bring him around, 'cause christ knows I'm not in the mood to answer a lot of stupid questions from Immigration.

Grow Up Already

Yes, so I received a call from the idiot I mentioned in my last post. Naturally, he was looking for me to do some free work for him. Equally naturally, I told him to shove off.

Some people. Oh well, I can't dwell on that now; turns out Pete's Poontang Emporium has a new girl, Mandy, who's amenable to my recently acquired fetish. Needless to say, I'm eager to test her out. Actually, the test drive's already begun -- Mandy's thumb is currently jammed up my ass, and is in fact the only thing keeping a tidal wave of ExLax-induced diarrhea from forcibly exiting my bowels.

So, if you'll excuse me, time for this precious flower to earn her paycheck. Don't wait up.

Oh Christ

I can't believe this doofus is back. I could've sworn he was dead.

Oh well. He better not expect me to do anymore pro bono work for that little retard organization of his, I'll tell you that much. I have much better things to do these days. Like OxyContin. And whores.

Free At Last

"Linda?"

"Yes? With whom am I speaking?"

"It's me, Oz -- Oswald Carver, an old friend of Ken's."

"Oh, Oswald, of course. How nice to hear from you."

"Yeah," I said. "Look, I just heard the good news. You know, about Ken's exoneration. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Oswald. I just wish he could be here to enjoy it."

"Well, I'm sure he's enjoying it wherever he is. Say, on his yacht. Or a private beach in Aruba. Maybe a castle in northern Germany..?"

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I jest."

"Well, it was in very poor taste--"

"Yes, so it was. But hey, how are you holding up? I promised Ken I'd check in with you, you know, see how you're doing."

"I'm doing as well as can be expected. Yourself?"

"Oh, fine," I said, scratching my testicles. "So listen, you maybe want to get together for sex sometime?"

"What?!"

"You know, sex. A little humping and a pumping? A little you lick my genitals and I lick yours? A little I say it then you do it? A little parlez-vous francais? C'mon, whaddya say?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Oh, for christ's sake -- don't play coy with me. We both know your husband died months ago, and that an old broad like yourself doesn't get many chances for action. Besides, I'm only offering as a favor to Ken."

She had a few more choice words for me, then the line went dead. That's when Ken busted out laughing.

"Hoo-hoo-hoo! That was great, Oz -- great!" he bellowed, taking another pull from what was now a half-empty bottle of scotch. "Man, I woulda loved to have seen the look on that bitch's face! Screw you, Linda! Screw you! Poppa's a free man, and he ain't never coming back!"

"Yes, so, what's next for you, Kenny Boy?" I asked, pulling two fine Cubans from the humidor on my desk. "Africa? Asia? Certainly not Antarctica?"

"Don't worry about me, Oz," he said, looking around furtively. "I got it all figured out, see? All figured out!"

"Good for you," I said. "Here, have a cigar."

He gladly accepted, then it was my turn to laugh when it exploded upon ignition. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill novelty store exploding cigar, either. No. It blew his head clear off, turning his neck into a pulsating geyser of blood.

Fortunately, the paranoid bastard had taken to keeping his Swiss banking info on his person after faking his death a few months back. The rest, as they say, will soon be history.

I May Never Go To Vegas Again

All right, I'll admit it: I like to romp in Vegas. Who doesn't? You'd be crazy not to, what with the non-stop gambling, drinking, eating, puking and more drinking & eating. And whores. And, yes, Vegas' "anything goes" attitude is exactly what makes that kind of action possible... but they're anything will have gone way too far if this reprehensible initiative becomes law.

Letting people legally buy marijuana? Why not let kids buy crack and heroin in the school cafeteria while you're at it? Next thing you know, they'll be marrying homosexuals, letting servants use the front entrance and all other sorts of nefarious business that Mssrs. Sinatra, Martin, Bishop, Lawford and... and... and that dark-skinned fellow never would've allowed back when they ruled Vegas. No sir.

That's it, I'm off to draft a very angry letter to my congressman. Maybe even my senators while I'm at it. I realize they have no influence over Nevada's voters, but goddammit, if I don't speak up now, who'll speak for me when the beatniks try to take over my state?

Battlestar Galactica Could Be A Lot Better

Don't get me wrong, it's a damn good show. And that's coming from a man who hates science fiction. In fact, I once set fire to a kid back in high school shop class 'cause he was always going on about robots and spaceships and all that crazy shit. But that's not the point. The point is, Battlestar Galactica isn't a great show for one simple reason: no naked boobies.

I mean, goddamn. What's the use in changing half the male characters from the original series into chicks if they're not going to pop their tops on a regular basis? Hello? Even the space whore in season 2 didn't get naked on camera -- what the hell was that all about? It's like hiring a monkey and not forcing it to eat a banana.

Speaking of hiring, maybe I should give Madame Ching's a call to see if they've got any whores who look like Boomer. You know, bring the mountain to Mohammed. I'll let you know how it works out.

Goddamn I Love A Good Cockfight

Get your minds out of the gutter. For one, what you're thinking of is a swordfight. For two, I'm talking about the Sport of Kings. No, not that one. The other Sport of Kings. The one that involves two roosters tearing themselves to shreds for the amusement of drunken, howling bettors. Right, that one.

So anyhow, it was a good night. Every cock I bet on won. What's more, I spent the winnings on the ugliest Mexican whore I could find, then gave her a savage beating in a roach-infested motel strategically located behind an abortion clinic. What can I say? I was on a bad side of town. People live like animals over there, and they deserve what they get.

Alright, I gotta split -- I shit my pants on the drive home, and need to wake the houseboy and tell him to go scrub down the Hummer's interior before feces soaks into the fine Corinthian leather seats. Then it's straight to bed for me. I would take a shower first, but I'm beat, and what do I care if my sheets get shitty? It's not like I'm the one who has to wash them, right?

The Guys At The Office Are Gonna Love This

Yeah, so, I hear you've been looking for me. Too bad -- I've been busy. Busy with business, dammit, and make no mistake: the business of Oswald Carver is most assuredly business. And business is good.

Unfortunately, good business inevitably comes hand in hand with a strained labor force. Which is why I decided to splurge and buy a motivational poster for the office. You know, one of those slickly produced signs with a tranquil image and some sage words underneath, all set around a central theme: Perserverance, Endurance, Stubbornness and the like.

At any rate, here's the one my staff will be enjoying come tomorrow; "click for a larger version," as they say. Also, if you're interested in getting one for your own office, might I recommend this site? Their custom craftsmanship is unparalleled -- tell 'em Oz sent you.

Willie Nelson, On The Other Hand, Should Be Hung By The Beard Till He's Dead

Unbelievable. Here I thought Willie Nelson was a fine, upstanding American, just like all country & western singers. Then he has to go and get charged with possession of marijuana and psilocybin mushrooms, revealing himself to be nothing more than a dirty hippie. Probably a commie, to boot.

Thing is, I'm willing to give our nation's icons a lot of leeway. Take my good friend Hank Williams Jr., for example. Am I bothered by the fact that he's accused of choking a waitress at a fleabag motel in Memphis? Of course not. I've done far "worse" myself. That said, I take a hard line when it comes to illegal drugs... a line that Willie flew right over the moment he allowed the Devil's Weed to enter his body.

Which begs the question: Why, Willie? Why? With so many perfectly legal drugs to choose from -- alcohol, tobacco, diet pills, Robitussin, my personal favorite OxyContin, etc. -- why stoop to the level of a common street junkie to get your fix? Why ruin your legacy like that? Can you tell me? Or is your pot-soaked brain so addled that you long ago forgot what led you down this low-rent path to begin with?

I suppose we'll never know. I'll tell you one thing, though -- not a chance in hell am I ever putting his so-called "BioWillie" fuel in my Hummer. Stuff's probably pure hemp oil!

Cut Bocephus Some Slack

I was perusing the latest catalog from renowned German porn distributor Der Freche Affe when the phone rang. I don't normally answer it myself -- that's the houseboy's job, after all -- but a prickly feeling on the back of my neck told me I should.

"Carver residence," I said. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Oz?"

"Maybe. Who's this?"

"It's me, ol' Randall Hank -- Bocephus!"

"Hank? Well dip me in molasses and, uh, yeah. Let's not go there. But look, how the hell are you, old son?"

"Not too good man. That crazy bitch's lawsuit is moving ahead -- it's going to the grand jury!"

Hank was referring, of course, to some hillbilly waitress' ridiculous claim that he'd cursed her out and choked her at a two-bit hotel in Memphis. As if the man who wrote "All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight" has to choke perfect strangers when he can hire world-class call girls to meet such needs.

"Grand jury? Preposterous. Do they have any evidence?"

"Naw man, just her word against mine. I mean, she had some red marks and bruising on her face..."

"Bruising?"

"Yeah man, from where I... I mean, from where she says I choked her."

"Well, did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Choke her?"

"Hey man, this line might be tapped! I ain't saying nothing that could put ol' Hank in the big house!"

"Alright, I got you. Say no more. But tell me one thing."

"What's that, man?"

"Why'd you call?"

"Oh, that. Yeah man, I was wondering if ol' Hank could borrow a couple of your high-powered lawyers -- I'm gonna need them!"

"Of course, old friend, of course. I'll put them on the next plane to Memphis."

"Thanks man! Ol' Hank owes you one!"

"Nonsense. Any debt you might have owed me was erased the day you put 'A Country Boy Can Survive' to vinyl."

"Ain't that the truth! Alright Oz, I'll catch you later!"

Good old Hank. Dumb as a rock, but there's no finer drinking partner to be found on Earth. God bless him.

Sometimes 'Sorry' Just Doesn't Cut It

I don't even know what to say about this one. Here's the set-up: I'd invited Shaniqua, the prematurely dismissed whore from my ill-fated dinner party, to my place this evening for a little quality time. Make no mistake, though -- by "quality time," I mean hardcore dirty monkey sex. And plenty of it.

Now, longtime visitors to this blog will recall my fondness for rim jobs. Fortunately for me, this isn't just a service Shaniqua's willing to provide; it's her specialty. Unfortunately for her, I had Mexican for lunch. Lots of Mexican. Which, for me, inevitably means corresponding levels of diarrhea. You do the math.

Not that it was all bad. I mean, I did gain a new fetish. You gotta take your victories where you can find them, folks.

I Need A New Houseboy

"...so he says to the cop, 'But it's my dog, officer. What's the problem?'"

My dinner guests exploded in laughter, as people always do when I tell a joke. Which is when my soon-to-be ex-houseboy, Kang, made the ill-advised decision to rudely interrupt the festivities.

"Ha ha, very funny Mistah Boss," he said with obvious sarcasm, puffing on what must have been his fortieth cigarette of the day. "If you all done telling that stupid joke for the millionth time, me gotta talk to you."

"Would you look at that," said Shaniqua, my date for the evening. "The little oriental kid can speak English!"

I waved Shaniqua off and confronted the lad. "I'm entertaining guests, Kang. Can't this wait?"

"No it can't, Mistah Boss," he said. "Me too poor. Me can't even afford new People. Me need raise."

"A raise?"

"Yeah! How me supposed to be cool and get lots of American pussy if me no have no money?"

"American...? Look, this is no way to get a raise, you dirty foreign bastard. Now get back over to the bar and make us a fresh round of drinks."

"No way, Ho-zay," he sneered. "Me already made twenty today, and only get paid fitty-cent. Me make plenty drink for one day."

"That tears it. Go to your room!"

"My room? You mean laundry room, you fat pig!"

Sherm Schweinbumser's wife, whose name I can't remember because she's female and therefore largely inconsequential, gasped loudly at that point. Frankly, I couldn't blame her; a display of arrogance like this from the hired help is unheard of in the circles in which I travel.

"I'm warning you, Kang! If you don't head to your room right this instant, I'll chain you to the toilet again. You don't want that, do you?"

"Hokay, Mistah Boss," he said, pulling a dog-eared copy of People from his back pocket as he turned to leave. "But me not lift another finger until me get the big, big money! Mike my words!"

"You'll get nothing and like it!" I bellowed after him. "And it's 'mark my words,' idiot!"

Needless to say, my guests didn't stay long after that. In fact, I was so discombobulated by the evening's savage turn of events that I sent Shaniqua back to Pete's Poontang Emporium without enjoying so much as a perfunctory handjob, much less the serious ass-riding I'd intended to put her through. Goddamn houseboy, ruining my party. It's a good thing he walked off when he did, or I'd be shipping him back to Mongolia in a 4'-long pine box!

So I'm Back

I won't try to deny it; I've been neglecting you poor people for far too long. It's not entirely my fault, though. Without going into details, let's just say I do a little side work from time to time for one of our government's most trusted agencies, and leave it at that.

No, I can't tell you which one. Stop asking. Stop. Really, I mean it. Stop already.

So, look. I can't make you any promises. I know you want what I have, and I'm the only one who can give it to you, but that doesn't mean I'll be able to give it to you all the time. Sure I'm here today, but what about tomorrow? Who knows.

Okay, I'm off to powder my nose. By which I mean snort an Oxy rail as long as a baby's arm before burying my head between the overripe breasts of the whore du jour waiting seductively in my emperor-sized bed. Don't wait up.

Cigarettes Are For Assholes

So I come home from work tonight, and what do I find? My houseboy, Kang, smoking a cigarette on the front porch like nobody's business. To make matters worse, he was wearing a porkpie hat and my favorite pair of sunglasses.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I barked, expecting him to scuttle away like most children do when faced with my righteous fury. But the past few months of servitude must've inoculated him, 'cause he didn't even flinch.

"Hey, screw you Mistah Boss," he snarled in rapidly developing, but still broken, English. "Me on break. You make own martini, Mistah Boss."

"Break?" I said. "Who the hell said anything about breaks?"

"Mistah Federal Government, that who!"

"Mister Fed..! Look, that's not even the point. The point is, when did you start smoking?"

"Me smoke long time," he said. "Always on break. But you, you no let me take no break. So you no see me smoke. Me forced to smoke at night, under the covers."

"Under the--! Holy shit, kid! You could've burned my palatial estate right down to the ground."

"Feh," he said, waving me off as he picked up a dog-eared copy of People. "Your insurance cover it plenty, Mistah Boss. Besides, how me supposed to be cool if me don't smoke?"

"Yeah, okay. I guess you got a point. Go ahead. After all, the surgeon general just announced that smoking doesn't cause cancer at all. Or any kind of disease!"

"Really?"

"Yep! So smoke up, kid. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Mistah Boss," he said. "Now get out of here so me can enjoy me break."

Well, that settles it; time to pack up Kang and trade him in for a new houseboy. Good news is, the United States' third world business partners are constantly churning out fresh batches of devastatingly destitute children just like the little shit, so finding a replacement shouldn't be too difficult.

Huh, I'd Forgotten All About This Blog

How's it hanging? Been awhile, huh? Yeah, I'm out of rehab. That's old news. Truth be told, I haven't made any new posts in like a month 'cause I'd completely forgotten about this blog. If it hadn't been for my semi-annual Google search for my own name, chances are it would've gone missing a lot longer.

Oh well. Not much new going on here; still earning obscene amounts of money, ogling and/or propositioning women, using far more than my fair share of the world's resources, and generally making an ass of myself. Still, I'll see if I can't get back to posting a little more regularly. Shit, if that twat Arianna Huffington can do it, anyone can. Peace out.

Coming Clean

Alright, I'll be honest with you. It's not that I've been busy. It's that I've been "drying out." That's right, rehab. Why? Well, for my, uh, OxyContin add... add... Look, I don't have to spell it out for you, do I? Let's just say I like the Oxys and leave it...

Hmphf. My case worker says I have to tell you. Says it's part of the "recovery process." Whatever. Look, I'm hooked on the Oxy, okay? I like the Oxy. Love 'em. Can't get enough of 'em. Which isn't illegal in and of itself, but getting prescriptions for them from multiple doctors? Yeah, apparently that's just as illegal here as it is in my main man Rush Limbaugh's home state, Florida. So me and my lawyers went to talk to a judge and the state's lawyers, and it was eventually decided that no charges would be brought... assuming I successfully completed this infernal rehab program.

Oh well. I can't say it's been all bad. There's a few celebrities here -- Corey Haim, Sally Struthers, one of George Foreman's kids -- but what I'm interested in are all the young female drug addicts roaming around. They're very vulnerable, see. And poor. Two traits that play rather nicely to my strengths.

Yes, well, that certainly drew a disapproving stare from my case worker. She wants me to delete that last part, but I'm a very fast typist and my obese shoulders are more than enough to keep her scrawny arms from reaching the keyboard. See you later; I'm off to bang some recovery sluts.

Sorry, I'm Still Kind Of Busy

Busy doing what? None of your goddamn business, thank you very much. What's more, I'm looking to be busy for about another week and a half, and I don't want to hear any crying about it.

In the meantime, here's a joke to tide you over: Women's Lib. Ha! Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!

Smell you later, alligators.

Goddamn That's Some Good Malt Liquor

Hey. How's it hanging? Not much on my end; just sitting here enjoying an ice-cold can of Colt 45. That's right, Colt 45. Sure, it's a poor person's drink. Even a homeless person's drink, when you get right down to it. So what? It works every time. That's all I care about.

Oh, and sorry for not writing much this week. Not that sorry, though. Hell, you people don't expect me to provide you with free entertainment every goddamn day of the week, do you? If so, you're crazy.

As for me, I'm off to get so drunk I crap my pants. Then I'm gonna enjoy a big dinner, and maybe drink some more after that. See you later.

I Love Me Some Abraham Lincoln

Seriously though, has there ever been a cooler President? Reunited the country by force, stood taller than Shaq, sported that crazy Dr. Zaius beard, wrote the Gettysburg Address -- my man was a stone cold thriller, through and through.

Plus, who can forget the time he teamed up with Kirk and Spock on that Star Trek rerun? Or his pivotal role in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure? Anyone who says they can is a filthy goddamn liar, and I might just punch them in the mouth if they're not careful. And though many dead Presidents have national monuments, his is the only one that looks like the honoree. What does that tell you, hmm?

It tells you Abe rules, all others drool. And no, I haven't been into my Oxy stash. Even if I have, so what? It's a free country. Or, as Mr. Lincoln once put it: "Be excellent to each other. And... party on, dudes!"

Sage words from a sage man. OZ-1, out.

My VP Can't Hold His Liquor

That's the last time I go drinking with my idiot VP, Sherm Schweinbumser. It was his birthday, so I decided to take him to the local Larry Flynt's Hustler Club for an extended liquid lunch. Dutch treat, of course. Little did I know that Schweinbumser's a lightweight when it comes to drinking; he was already three sheets to the wind before I'd even hung one out to dry.

"Sweet Jesus, man!" I said, grabbing him by the suspenders as he lolled around listlessly in his stool. "You've gotta get a hold of yourself. You can't go back to work in this condition!"

"The hell I--hiccup!--can't!" he said, squinting viciously at no one in particular. "I'sh sho drunk, I'm gonna--hiccup!--tell the boss right off when I'sh--hiccup!--getsh back."

"I am the boss, you moron."

"Shit, you're right. Hiccup! Shay... you're a great bossh, Oz," he said, leaning in as if to hug me. I recoiled in disgust, slapping his arms away.

"Get the hell off me, Schweinbumser!"

"But I love you, man!"

"Love me? What's wrong with you? It's like you've never had alcohol before!"

"Not schince--hiccup!--college," he confessed, eyes darting about furtively. "My wife... she don't--hiccup!--like me drinking."

"What? Your wife?! Goddammit! It makes me sick just hearing such nonsense. My advice to you is to leave her, and quick. Don't waste another minute with that shrew!"

"Mmm, I don't--hiccup!--know, Oz. I really love -- holy shit, that lady's naked!"

Yes, it took Schweinbumser twenty minutes to realize we were in a titty bar, but he got a lot calmer once he did. What can I say. I like my underlings stupid, so I don't have to fear them usurping me. Still, what an ordeal. I thought I was taking a man out for a drink, not a weepy female bookstore clerk. And to think that he's raising two sons. The horror!

I Have Explosive Diarrhea

That's no lie. I even kept a bucket in my office today as a result, and came damn close to using it once or twice. Fortunately, high-paid executives like yours truly always have a private restroom, so I didn't have to resort to such extremes.

Unfortunately, my Hummer comes equipped with no such luxury, which meant I was forced to pull over and make a mad dash for the bushes when my bowels started quivering on the interstate during my homeward commute. I didn't quite make it, and found myself squatting with no cover as liquid shit spewed from my trembling ass.

"You sick bastard!" someone shouted from a passing car. Not a second later, something pointy bounced off my head. I turned slightly and saw it was a crushed can of Old Milwaukee.

"You're going to hell for that!" screamed a presumably ugly woman, just as a trucker blew his air horn. Talk about embarrassing.

After an eternity, the geyser ended. I semi-wiped with a filthy, rain-soaked Penny Saver lying nearby, then got back in my Hummer. I made it home without further incident, but believe me when I say I've learned my lesson: no more raw bacon in the morning. No sir. No matter how good it tastes.

I Didn't Give At The Office, Either

I was enjoying an after-work cocktail in the den when my houseboy burst into the room. He made the usual hissing and spitting sounds that pass for language amongst his people, waving crazily at the phone on my desk.

"What?" I said. "What are you trying to say, Kang?"

He hissed and spit again, still pointing at the phone.

"What, a phone call?"

He nodded furiously. I sent him away by throwing a piece of chocolate into the hallway, and picked up the receiver.

"Yeah," I said into the phone. "This is Oz."

"Hi, Mr. Carver?" said an unfamiliar voice on the other end.

"Mmmaybe... Who's this?"

"This is Tina! How are you tonight?"

"Tina who?"

"Oh, that's not important," she said. "What is important are children... especially children with leprosy. Don't you agree?"

"With what?"

"With the fact that children with leprosy are important."

"Oh. I don't know about that."

"Well, let me ask you this. Do you know any children with leprosy, Mr. Carver?"

"Certainly not; we don't allow poor people in my neighborhood. That middle class family is bad enough."

"That's great! That means you're in a position to make a generous donation to the Children With Leprosy Foundation!"

"I -- the what? Alright, who put you up to this?"

"Up to what, helping children with leprosy? That would be our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ."

"Oh brother," I said. "Listen toots, the only way you're getting a donation out of me is if you come down here and earn it with a world-class rim job. And don't even think about sending this Jesus fellow to take your place."

Naturally, she hung up. I set the phone down and strolled out of the den with a riding crop in my hand. Walking into the living room, I found Kang sprawled on the sofa, eating cheese doodles and watching television.

"Idiot!" I shouted, whacking him on the head with the crop. "How many times have I told you: screen out the telemarketers!"

Kang hissed and spit as he covered his head, then scurried off to his cot in the laundry room. What a pansy. He'll need to toughen up if he wants to make it in this country, that's for sure.

What Is Best In Life?

It was my first day back at work since suffering a busted ass. True, Doc Stinebrau wanted me to convalesce for a month, but vultures gather fast 'round empty desks at my company. Besides, today was the quarterly meeting of the department presidents, and I'll be damned if I was going to let my VP, Sherm Schweinbumser, represent me at such an important event.

Our CEO, Chuck Luddite, got giddy as a schoolgirl when he saw me walk into the executive boardroom. I always was his favorite.

"Oz!" he cried, leaping up and grasping my hand. "Good to have you back, old friend!"

"Glad to be back, Chuck," I said, giving him a firm two-pumper before grabbing my usual seat at his right hand... only to find the head of Consumer Affairs, Dick Needley, perched smugly in my spot.

"What the--?" I said. "What are you doing in my seat, Needley?"

"Well, hello Oswald," he said with a leer. "Didn't Oxy-pect... I mean, expect to see you back so soon."

"Oh?" I said. "Why so?"

As Needley opened his mouth to reply, I barreled into him with the speed and savageness of a cheetah, knocking him and my chair to the extra-plush carpet below. Before he could react I opened my briefcase, wrapped it around his head, and squeezed with all my might.

"Bleargh!!!" he screeched, hands flailing helplessly as I kneed him in the balls. Just as he was ready to pass out, I yanked the briefcase away and spat in his face.

"Now then, you sorry sack of shit," I said, pushing myself off the floor. "Get the hell out of my chair or I swear to christ I'll throw you right out that goddamn window!"

Needley did as he was told, slinking back to his own seat a defeated man. Furthermore, Chuck was so impressed with my decisiveness that he gave me an immediate raise while simultaneously slashing Needley's salary. With Chuck's blessing I called Needley's wife to break the news to her, and was rewarded with the sweet sound of her tears -- thus completing the Conan Trifecta.

All of which proves you should never be afraid to use violence in the workplace. Your enemies don't expect it, and it'll go a long ways towards differentiating you from the madding crowd. Believe me.

Toot Toot

No doubt about it -- my new yacht is worth every penny. And believe me, I paid plenty of pennies for that beauty. More than most of you will ever have, that's for sure.

I took her out on her maiden voyage today. It was me, Leo Dreisdale, Bosco Peterman, and five whores; one each for my guests, one for the crew to share, and two for me. Oh, and my houseboy Kang, who was there to serve drinks and food, but I considered him crew so he doesn't really count. Regardless, the weather was perfect, the seas were smooth, and the good times most assuredly did roll.

"Hell of a ship, Oz!" said Dreisdale, head of accounting down at the company. We were lounging in the Donkey Punch's saloon, sipping Kang's perfectly mixed martinis and waiting for the whores to come up in their bikinis. "I oughta look into getting one of my own."

"What, with a wife and three kids at home?" I scoffed. "Good luck to you, sir. No, yachts are more the terrain of jet-setting bachelor executives, such as myself."

"Dammit, Oz, you've one-upped us again!" wailed Peterman, who oversees the company's purchasing division. "We can't compete with your extravagant lifestyle when we've wives to pamper and children to put through college!"

"Ha ha, yes," I said, lighting a fat cigar. "Well, I'm sure there's some advantage to the married life -- I'm just having trouble finding it aboard my new yacht!"

We had a good chuckle at that, just as the whores waltzed into the saloon wearing their skimpy bikinis. Kang went wild with lust upon seeing such scanitly clad women, and gave a blood-curdling cry as he leapt from behind the bar. Within seconds he had one of the whores on the ground, dry-humping her face like there was no tomorrow.

"Well, looks like Kang has claimed Laticia for the crew," I laughed, swallowing a handful of Oxys before passing the bag around. I headed through the sliding glass door to the sun-drenched deck outside. "Come on, everyone! Let's give these lovers a little privacy and go test the Donkey Punch's cannons on some poor person's boat!"

The weapons test went flawlessly, handily sinking a low-rent pontoon and its very surprised hillbilly occupants. What can I say? If you don't wanna get bit, don't swim with sharks.

That's Admiral Oz To You

Yeah, so I bought a yacht. She's a Princess 25M, which I've dubbed the Donkey Punch. Nothing too fancy, just enough to separate me from the ever-growing number of people who can afford cabin cruisers. You know, keeping ahead of the Joneses and all that.

The only drawback is having to add a full-time captain and mate to my personal payroll. But that's a small price to pay to be secure in the knowledge I can take my yacht out at a moment's notice with trusted hands at the wheel. Besides, I'm fairly certain that employing a captain legally makes me a commodore, if not an admiral.

I'll learn soon enough; tomorrow I'm taking a couple of business associates and some whores out on the Donkey Punch's maiden voyage. But first, I'm off to the mall to buy suitable yachting attire -- I'm thinking something L. Ron Hubbard-ish. And maybe get a thong wax. We'll see.

There Goes The Neighborhood

Can you believe this? A goddamn middle class family moved in down the street. Middle class! They inherited the house from Yule Umlaut, who made his fortune in steel. Having no heirs, Yule deeded the majority of his estate to the G.O.P., the National Rifle Association, and various militias. But in an odd fit of generosity, he left his gorgeous mansion to his very middle class personal secretary and her family. Lucky me.

Don't get me wrong; I hate the middle class. Absolutely despise them. They're dirty, uneducated, have horrible taste, and invariably smell bad. But they are good for two things: being easily duped on election day, and a willingness to work their entire lives for men like me, only to wind up with nothing while I retire on the lap of luxury.

I'll tell you one thing, though -- those middle class kids are the spitting image of Yule, mustache and all. No wonder he gave them his house. Yule always was a big softie.

I'm Not A Pervert

I was relaxing on the front porch earlier today, enjoying a pitcher of mimosas and perusing the morning paper when two scantily clad hussies came frolicking up the walk. I got excited, thinking they might be whores.

"Hello sir," one of them said.

"Are you the man of the house?" asked the other.

"Well. Let's put it this way," I said, smiling. "If someone around here's sporting more wood than me, I don't want to know about it. Eh?"

The girls flashed uncomfortable looks at each other, then the blonder of the two continued.

"Yeah, well, we're like selling magazine subscriptions? For our school trip?"

"Yeah. Do you want to, like, buy any?"

"School?" I said, momentarily distracted from my minute inspection of their cleavage. "What college would that be?"

"Oh, we don't go to college."

"Nah, we're at St. Huggins Academy. Go Nuns!"

A considerable pool of sweat had formed on my brow, the result of my brain run wild with debauched fantasies pressed upon it by these girls' shapely bodies. I produced a silk handkerchief and patted myself dry.

"N-nuns? Nunsense. Eh, nonsense. You're too old to be in high school. You're both twenty, right? Eighteen at the youngest."

"Nah, I'm sixteen, and Ginger's fifteen."

"Fifteen-and-a-half," Ginger offered.

"What's that? Eighteen?"

"No... hey, maybe we should be going."

"Hmm? No, no -- uh, why don't you come in and look at my massive art erection? Er, collection."

But they were already on the move, muttering to themselves about the creepy old perverts who apparently live in this neighborhood. At that moment Kang came out to freshen my pitcher, hissing and spitting as he did.

"You're right, my boy," I said. "They were a couple of bitches." Then I tossed Kang's lunch, a handful of peanuts and grapefruit rinds, into a nearby bush, and howled with laughter as he scampered after the dirty pittance. What can I say? I'm not the type of guy to let women get me down. Especially when they're cockteases.

I've Hired A Houseboy

Goddamn, this is going to make my life so much easier. Maids, cooks and gardeners are all well and good, but to really live large one needs a houseboy. Sure, you could go the butler route. But they're so damn stuffy, and inevitably think they're better than you. Houseboys, on the other hand, know their place.

Anyhow, the kid's name is Kang. He'll be answering the phone, greeting visitors, making cocktails, etc., all at a very reasonable rate. The only drawback is he doesn't speak a lick of English, being a native Mongolian or some such shit. No matter; as long as he knows how to fetch slippers and mix a decent martini, we'll get along famously.

That's One Depressing Movie

Ugh. I'm nauseated. Why? I finally got around to watching Requiem for a Dream for the first time. Yeah, yeah, so it came out in 2000. So what. It's a disgusting movie, and I wish I'd put it off longer. As in, forever.

For one, you have all those pathetic drug addicts, and they're running around, shooting their dope, getting abscesses, going to jail, having arms cut off, and all the other silly things junkies do. Then there's the crazy old broad who gets hooked on barbiturates, and she's hallucinating, and turning into a mummy, and getting electroshock, etc. Horrible.

The only saving grace is an incredible sequence in which Jennifer Connelly participates in both vaginal-to-vaginal and anal-to-anal dildo penetration with some redheaded actress, while a crowd of upstanding American males cheers them on. Had the movie started and ended there, or better still expounded on that angle, I would've been satisfied. As it is, I'm left with the odd urge to punch a retarded midget.

Whatever. If I can no longer count on Hollywood to entertain me, I'll just have to do it myself. In other words, time for me to gobble some Oxys and have Pete's Poontang Emporium send over a couple whores. Toodle-oo.

What Time Is It?

Shit, what day is it for that matter? I just woke up, and found myself lying in a drying pool of vomit on the kitchen floor. I have no idea how I got there, how long I was out, or even if the vomit was mine. Oh, and I was wearing a cape, hunting boots, swimming goggles, and a leopard skin speedo. And my signature bow tie.

Ladies, a little dampness between the thighs would certainly be understandable at this point.

Sure, I guess my Oxy prescription could have played a role in this, but I think something more sinister is afoot. Like alien abduction. Or the Sasquatch. We'll see.

This Is A Dark Day For American Business

"Kenny Boy!" I said. I was on the phone with my longtime friend and mentor, Ken Lay, just hours after he and Jeff Skilling were convicted of a laundry list of trumped up charges related to the so-called Enron scandal. "It's me, Oz. I just heard the news. This is terrible!"

"Tell me about it," he said. "Those cocksuckers on the jury wouldn't know justice if it snuck up and bit 'em on the ass. I mean, conspiracy? What the hell is that all about?"

"It's preposterous," I assured him. "The whole thing is preposterous. I'm sure you'll be exonerated on appeal."

"I hope so, old friend," he said. "I mean, what I did, I did out of necessity. Not fraud. Necessity's the mother of invention, okay? And I needed money, so I invented a way to get it. Hell, everyone needs money, right?"

"Damn straight. And plenty of it, if they know what's good for them."

"See? Just like everyone else, Jeff and I needed money. Lots and lots of money."

"Nothing more American than that."

"Exactly. But unlike most of the mouth-breathers out there, we were smart enough to figure out how to make bazillions of it, without even breaking a sweat."

"And you did it in style."

"Bingo. So where's the goddamn crime, huh? Tell me where the crime is. Where is it? Where?!"

"The only crime I see is a good man like you having to spend his golden years in a jail cell."

"Jail cell? Oh god!" he cried, bursting into tears. "What am I going to do, Oz? What am I going to do?!"

"Well, for starters you can stop crying. You know it nauseates me to hear a man cry."

"Y-you're right," he said, sniffling. "I'll st-stop."

"Good. Look, I've gotta run. Let me know if you need anything, 'k?"

"Will do, buddy. Can I count on you for visits?"

"What, and risk getting shanked by one of your fellow prisoners? No thanks. I will drop in on Linda from time to time, though. Ta ta."

I hung up and shivered, thoroughly disgusted by Ken's sob scene. Still, it's a real tragedy to think of him sitting behind bars for the next 20-30 years. Wait, holy shit! This must be how the native South Africans felt when Nelson Mandela got locked up! No wonder they were so happy when he finally got paroled. Well, hopefully I'll get to experience the same jubilation with Kenny Boy one day.

Al Gore Doesn't Know The Score

What is this nonsense? This "Al Gore has a new movie about his environmental slideshow presentation, and everyone's getting all excited about it" business, hmm? We're talking about the same Al Gore, right? Tall guy? Looks kind of like a chubby Jeff Goldblum? Lost the 2000 election to the current dipshit in office, and was second fiddle to the most morally bankrupt president of the 20th century?

Okay. Just wanted to be clear. I'm a little woozy, what with all the Oxys I've been munching lately. Thought I might have missed something. Now that I'm sure we're on the same page, here's a newsflash: unless you want our economy to tank, and see that tree-hugging pinhead in the Oval Office, I'd strongly advise against listening to whatever crazy bullshit Gore goes on about in his goofy little documentary.

I mean, shit. We could spend trillions, regulate the hell out of the industrial sector, and maybe make the planet a little cleaner. Why bother? Human beings have proven time and time again that we're very skilled at adapting to different environments. If it allows me to keep the lifestyle and earnings to which I'm accustomed, I'm more than willing to deal with an endless burning desert. As should you.

Keep Your Laws Off My Steering Wheel

"Okay, Mr. Carver?" said the highway patrolman. "I'm going to have to ask you to step out of your vehicle."

"Show you my testicles?" I said, confused. "What are you doing outside, officer? Come in, come in! I'm no dope-sucking criminal with something to hide -- you have free reign of my home. Unless you've come for my computer, in which case I'll need to see a warrant. Can I get you something to drink?"

That's when I realized I was behind the wheel of my trusty Hummer. Which was inexplicably parked in the middle of a rather dilapidated McDonald's. The place was full of people, but instead of employees and customers, they were cops.

Next thing I know, I'm being booked for driving under the influence. Guess the 12 or so OxyContins I took this morning really crept right up on me.

Still, it's bullshit. Sure, drinking and driving is bad, even if it is occasionally necessary. And driving with a head full of illegal drugs should never be tolerated. But to tell a man he can't drive after taking prescription medicine, medicine he might very well need to stay alive? You might as well tell that man he can't drive while breathing. And I'll be goddamned if anyone's going to tell me to suffocate myself just because I want to go for a drive.

At least, that's the argument my attorneys'll make when this nasty business goes before a judge in a few months. In the meantime, I'm off to pop some more Oxys. You know, to take the edge off.

I'm In Oxy Heaven

Yeah, so I'm out of the hospital. But I'll be wearing an ass-splint for the next month, plus one of those conical plastic collars given to dogs after surgery. I'm getting a second opinion on the latter, though; Nurse Lola's the one who said I had to wear it, and she was laughing up a storm when I got discharged earlier this afternoon. That bitch.

The good news is, Doc Stinebrau's helping me ease the pain with a sackful of the rich, fat white man's drug of choice: OxyContin. Given that I'm as rich, fat and white as they come, society shouldn't expect jack shit out of me for the next month or so. Certainly not before my prescription runs out, and maybe not even then.

First thing's first, though -- I'm going down to Pete's Poontang Emporium to snort crushed-up Oxys off some whore's boobs. Eat your heart out, Rush.

Good Riddance To Naked Rubbish

So. Andrew Martinez -- a.k.a. "Naked Guy" -- has gone to that great nudist colony in the sky. To which I say, about time.

Surely you remember Naked Guy. He's the nutjob who was famous for fifteen minutes back in 1992. Not for any great attribute, skill or achievement. Just for going to school naked. Every day. Until even his notoriously liberal college, Berkeley, had no choice but to expel him. According to the AP report, Naked Guy committed suicide at age 33, after 10 years of "halfway houses, psychiatric institutions, occasional homelessness and jail," all due to -- brace yourselves -- mental illness.

No. Couldn't be. Naked Guy? Crazy? The Devil you say.

Either way, I'm glad he's gone. I'm all for freedom of expression, but as J.S. Mill once said, "your freedom to expose your naked ass ends when it stands a chance of leaving skidmarks on any public seat I might wind up using." Or something to that effect.

And now that I think about it, I could care less about freedom of expression. Anything that leads to naked guys wandering the streets is strictly for the hippies.

I Suppose This Means A Cleveland Steamer Is Out Of The Question, Too

Women: can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em. Take Nurse Lola, the vixen assigned to my care while I'm laid up at Uecker Memorial Hospital.

"Look, honey, as long as you're down there," I said during my most recent sponge bath, "how 'bout a little handjob action, huh?"

"Mister Carver," she said, full of self-absorbed indignation. "I am a registered nurse, not a hooker!"

"Well, you know what they say. Any woman who won't touch a man's willy is probably a lesbian. You don't want people thinking you're a lesbian, do you?"

"I am a lesbian."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that. Maybe a tryst with a real man--"

"What?!"

"I'm just saying."

"That's it! You can wash your own damn self!"

"Aw, c'mon. Would twenty bucks change your mind?"

It wouldn't, and she stormed out of the room in a tizzy. How typical. I don't know what it is about lesbians, but they all seem to have huge chips on their shoulders. Must come from not getting enough dick.

I Broke My Ass

Okay, that was a mistake.

Doc Stinebrau's been on me for months about getting into shape. Says a third heart attack is inevitable if I don't change my diet and start exercising. Given that the former's out of the question, I decided to partially humor him by picking up some kind of physical activity. I went with rollerblading, thinking it'd be a good way to meet chicks.

Yeah, well, like mother would say: Think in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first. Only she would actually make me do it.

But I digress. Long story short, I didn't meet any chicks. In fact, I didn't make it more than three wobbly feet before crashing on my ass, much to the delight of some neighborhood children playing across the street. And let me tell you, a man as large as me doesn't fall softly; it's going to take a city work crew to fill the crack I made.

So now I'm back at the hospital, being tended to by a team of skilled doctors and attractive nurses for what amounts to a busted ass. On the plus side, it means plenty of complimentary sponge baths. Without having to pay any whores.

I'm Not Your Babysitter

Get this. I come home from work tonight, only to find a gaggle of slackjawed children on the sidewalk in front of my palatial estate. They were playing some kind of game involving crudely drawn chalk patterns and jumping. Not to mention noise.

"What the hell is going on here?" I barked at them, causing a few to instantly scatter.

"We're playing hopscotch Mister Carver," one of the remaining brats explained. I think it was Bendemix's daughter, but to be honest all children look alike to me. Just a bunch of hairless chimpanzees in midget clothes, crawling with disease and snot.

"Hopscotch? I don't see any goddamn scotch. I see a lot of goddamn kids trespassing on my goddamn property! Now beat it, you little shits! Get the hell out of here before I eat you all for dinner!"

Beat it they did, leaving me to some well-deserved peace and quiet. Sure, there'll be the usual round of angry phone calls later tonight. So what. As you may have noticed, I rather enjoy confrontations.

Hands Off My Mexicans

I tell you. As a lifelong Republican and former Nixon Youth, I never imagined I'd find myself cursing out a G.O.P. President. Yet I do it every single time George "Shit-Eyes" Bush addresses the nation. Tonight was no exception.

"In Washington, the debate over immigration reform has reached a time of decision," his speechwriters tell us. Bush's decision? Wasting even more tax dollars by using the National Guard as border patrol. The same National Guard that signed up for "just one weekend a month," only to wind up serving as target practice for crazed Islamic jihadists in Afghanistan and Iraq for the past 3 or 4 years. On behalf of National Guardsmen everywhere, I call bullshit on that.

More importantly, if we don't let in any new Mexicans, where am I going to get more gardeners, maids and cooks to the replace the ones who quit over alleged mental and physical abuse? I don't abuse them, of course. They just say I do, then quit and try to sue me. Whatever.

Bottom line, I'm constantly in need of fresh Mexicans and don't need Bush cutting off my supply. That, and life would be much easier if social workers didn't believe every crazy abuse story they hear from some dirty immigrant.

When Will That Woman Die?

"Hello, mother."

"Mother? My mother's dead. And a woman. Look, who is this?"

"It's your son. Oswald."

"Who?"

"Oswald. Oswald Carver. Your son."

"Oh, Oswald. What do you want?"

"It... it's Mother's Day, mother. Just wanted to call to wish you a happy one."

"Well you shouldn't have bothered, you ungrateful bastard."

"Hmm. Did you get the flowers?"

"Yes, and I threw them right out! You have your nerve."

"Mmm-hmm. And how is everything at Golden Oaks, hmm?"

"How do you think it is, you sniveling twit?! Orderlies always rummaging through your personal goods, roughing you up if you complain -- it's a nightmare!"

"Okay, mother."

"You don't understand! Poor old Mrs. Lipschitz shat herself last week, and no one cleaned her up for three days!"

"Yes, well, I really must be going. Until next year, hmm?"

"You can go f--," she said as I ended the call. What a bitch. No wonder father left her for a Hungarian trapeze artist. Even with that handlebar mustache, his new lover was still more feminine than mom. Better looking vagina, too.

It Hurts When I Pee

It's like pissing tacks, I tell you. Which can only mean one thing: I've got the clap. Or as I like to call it, gonorrhea.

Ah well. It's not like it's the first time I've had it, and it probably won't be the last. But it does mean a shot of ceftriaxone. In the ass, no less. Unfortunately, Doc Stinebrau says he can't see me 'til Monday. Which means I get to enjoy another day of screaming every time I take a leak.

Lucky me.

Brian Johnson Has No Business Being In AC/DC

Well, that was a shock. I was down at the mall this afternoon, buying a new gun. Plus, I got a few slices of Sbarro from the food court. Okay, I won't lie to you; I ate an entire pie. So what? Like you wouldn't if you had my wealth and stamina.

But look, that's not even the point. The point is, as I was leaving the mall I walked past one of those gay men's clothing stores that are so popular these days, and who should come walking out with bags full of gay men's clothes than current AC/DC lead singer Brian Johnson.

"Brian Johnson?" I said in surprise. "Why are you shopping at a gay men's store?"

"Wha-what?" he said in that trademark whiny growl of his. "Naw man, I'm all about the ladies! Sink the pink! Givin' the dog a bone, you know?"

I rolled my eyes. "First of all, I didn't say anything about your sexual orientation. Secondly, I don't care."

"You better not, or there's gonna be some bedlam in Belgium! 'Cause I ain't gay! I only inject the venom into the ladies, man!"

"Whatever. What I asked was, why is the lead singer of the world's greatest rock 'n' roll band buying clothes at a gay men's store? Shouldn't you be wearing leather pants, jean jackets and the like?"

"Yeah, well, maybe," he said. "But me and the boys are getting ready to go into the studio for a new album, see? And I got some ideas -- big ideas! I'm talking fat women backup singers, horns, maybe some disco beats... the works! Whaddya think?"

"I think that's the stupidest damn idea I've heard all week. And I hear plenty of stupid ideas. Besides, what the hell does that have to do with shopping at a gay men's store?"

"Nothing," he said, then pointed over my shoulder. "Whoa, shake a leg! Jessica Alba's sucking that guy off! He's really givin' her a stiff upper lip!"

Though I knew it was a ploy, I couldn't resist looking. After all, had Alba really been performing oral sex right behind me, and I'd not looked, I never would've forgiven myself. But she wasn't, and by the time I turned back around Johnson was gone.

I don't know what Angus and Malcolm were thinking when they hired that guy. He's no Bon Scott, that's for sure.

Finally, A Video Game Worth Getting Excited About

Hell yes. A brand new Duck Hunt is coming our way, which explains the joy-related load of crap currently squishing around in my pants.

I can't wait. With the super-realistic graphics in these "next-gen" video game consoles, sitting directly in front of my 108" plasma TV while blasting ducks at pointblank range will finally be the gorefest I always imagined it to be back when I was a kid. God bless the Mario brothers, and god bless Duck Hunt. Amen.

They Call Me Mister Carver

One of my underlings poked his head into my office this afternoon. It was my first full day back at work after dealing with a nasty head cold, and I was in no mood for pleasantries.

"Nelson! What in the name of Sam Hill are you doing here? Don't you have work to do?!"

"Er, sorry Mr. Carver," he mewled. "Ah, I was just wondering..."

"Yes? Spit it out, man!"

"...if you'd seen Jeffers? He's in charge of..."

"Spit it out!"

"...the Shankawicz presentation, and..."

"Goddammit! I am the head of this goddamn department, which means I'm a very busy man! More importantly, I'm a very important man, and certainly don't have time to keep track of all the slackjawed halfwits who work for me! Do I make myself clear... Supervisor Nelson?!?"

"Er, yes sir -- wait. Did you just demote me?"

"Of course I did," I said, waving him off as I returned to the nudie mag I'd been perusing before his rude interruption. "You're reduced two steps in rank. Return to post."

I couldn't help but smile as Nelson schlumped off. Little did he know I had Jeffers arrested last night for stealing office supplies. At his home, so as to avoid a potentially morale-killing situation. You have to think of these things when you're the boss.

I Am The Walrus

Goo Goo Ga Joob, bitch. And by the way, this cold medicine isn't worth a shit. You hear me?! Not! Worth! A! Shit!

A Pox Of AIDs On Whoever Gave Me This Cold

Goddamn people these days. They don't have enough sense to stay home when they're sick, and as a result I now have a tremendous bitch of a head cold. It's one of those progressive numbers too, steadily getting worse for three straight days. Hell, it was already bad enough yesterday that I couldn't get it up for my usual Saturday night "date." You can imagine my embarrassment.

Anyway, I guess I'll pay a visit to Doc Stinebrau if I don't see signs of improvement by tomorrow morning. That or drill a hole in one of my ears. One way or another, I'm getting sinus relief.

Comic Books Are Strictly For Children & Retards

Yeah, so I just heard on the news that today is -- get this -- "Free Comic Book Day." Meaning, if you can bring yourself to walk into a comic book store, you'll get some free comics. Which appeals to me just as much as "Free Herpes Day," "Free Kick In The 'Nads Day," etc.

Why? Because I'm no longer six-years-old. Sorry, but 32 pages of badly drawn, badly developed characters aren't enough to captivate me as an adult. Especially when the vast majority of said characters are male underwear fetishists beating the crap out of each other. Yeah, yeah, I know all about you clinically depressed bastards churning out so-called comics about your own miserable little lifes and other "real world" scenarios. But that's like offering caviar-and-shit-flavored bubble gum as an alternative to grape.

In other words, there's no shame in creating entertainment for children. There is, however, great shame in hijacking a form of entertainment designed for children and using it to make faux literature for slacker adults who should be doing better things with their time. That's not my opinion, that's fact.

So, I heartily encourage all the kids in the audience to run down to their local comic book dealer and get some free Archies or what have you. But if you're a grown-up with plans on taking part in the festivities, do yourself and society a favor and spend the day reading a real book instead. Might I recommend Nancy Manahan & Rosemary Curb's Lesbian Nuns: Breaking Silence? Unlike you, it's a proven winner.

Bingo

Holy shit. My scratch-off ticket -- it's a winner. For a cool 10 grand no less. The ironic thing is I'm already worth millions, so this means nothing to me.

I bet a lot of you readers could really use this money, huh? You know, to pay bills, buy a car, put a down payment on a house. Whatever it is poor people do with large sums of found cash. Which is why it's lucky to have been won by me. 'Cause now it gets to be spent at the local Larry Flynt's Hustler Club, instead of being put to a "good" (read: boring) use.

Anyhow, see you suckers later. Post-lap dances later, that is.

That's A Lot Of Blood

And it's all over my bedroom. To make matters worse? I have no idea where it came from.

So, it looks like I have some work to do. Breathe a word of this to the cops and I swear you're next.

I'll Wipe My Own Ass, Thank You

"...and I'd like it 'Super Sized,' please."

Silence from the PA box. And then: "Uh, sir? We don't offer the Super Size anymore."

"What do you mean, you don't offer the Super Size? Is this McDonald's or not?"

The question was rhetorical. I knew for a fact I was at McDonald's, because I'd driven there in my Hummer for lunch. And I'm not some pill-popping dopehead given to forgetting where he is. Clearly, the same could not be said for the dude working the drive-through this afternoon.

"Yeah, you're at McDonald's," he said. "But like I said, we don't have a Super Size anymore. Just a Large."

"A 'Large?' But I want a Super Size. What happened to the Super Size?"

"We discontinued it. Due to, uh, health concerns."

"Health concerns? Again, is this McDonald's or not?"

"Yeah, man. Like I already said, this is McDonald's. But..."

"But nothing! If I wanted to discuss health concerns, I'd see a doctor. Which I do. Frequently. But when I come to McDonald's, I want a lot of greasy food, served up piping hot, with a gallon of Coke to wash it down. Do I make myself clear?"

"Uh, yeah. But like I said..."

"Look -- the customer is always right, goddammit! And I am the goddamn customer, and I want a goddamn Super Size with my order, and I'm filthy goddamn rich, so gimme what I goddamn want! Now!!!"

Squeaky wheel greased, I was soon in possession of enough food to feed an entire Ethiopian village. Not that it did; I was quite hungry, and finished every bite.

I Like My Sabbath Like I Like My Coffee

The day started in one godawful manner. I was sleeping comfortably in my luxurious king-sized bed when my slumber was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a lawnmower. I tossed and turned a bit, but to no avail. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was only 8:30. 8:30! Someone was going to get a piece of my mind, that was certain.

"Who the hell mows their lawn this early?" asked Trixie, the whore who was in bed with me at the time.

"A very sorry individual, if I have anything to say about it," I said. I threw on a robe and stormed out into the cruel light of day. My new neighbor, Greg Bendemix, was tearing it up like nobody's business on the back of a high-powered riding lawnmower.

"Bendemix! Bendemix!!" I shouted, getting his attention. He shut down the mower and walked towards me.

"Morning Oz," he said with an easy grin. "What's cooking?"

"Cut the shit, Bendemix. What's the big idea, mowing your lawn at 8:30 in the morning?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry about that. Wanted to get it done before me and Marsha take the kids to church. You know, so I can watch the rest of the draft later."

"Church?! Listen shithead, next time you inconvenience me so you can go bow to some pagan god, I'm dousing gasoline all over this lawn of yours, got it? Then I'm driving down to your stupid little church, taking a nice, fat dump on the altar, and using the run-off to sign your name to the deed. Do we have an understanding?!?"

I guess my message got through, 'cause Bendemix went white as a ghost and nodded. One of his kids had come outside to watch the exchange, and was now bawling in the doorway. I smiled.

"Besides, what kind of welfare recipient doesn't have a lawn service in this day and age? Stop being so tightfisted and put some deserving Mexicans to work, you cheap bastard."

With that, I went back inside and enjoyed a rigorous session with Trixie. Then, while Bendemix and his family were off at church, I severed the cable line leading to their house. Where's his Jesus now, hmm? Where is his Jesus now?

Fire It Up

The grill, that is. I just sent the maid to Piggly Wiggly for a score of their finest New York strip steaks, and I don't plan on sleeping 'til at least half of them are resting in my belly. Comfortably or not.

The key to such a feat is pacing. Put the first five down too fast, and you're good for nothing but lying on your stomach for the rest of the day. No. I recommend no more than two per hour. Assuming you want to go the distance, that is.

That Was A Close Call

Well. Things certainly got a little heated during the evening commute.

"I'm gonna kill you, you fat honky bastard!"

This was the driver in the car to my right. At least, I think that's what he said. It was a little hard to tell, as the windows on my Hummer were rolled up, both the AC and the AC/DC were at full blast, and we were doing 80 down the highway. Plus, he was waving a gun at me.

So I slammed on my breaks. And just in the nick of time, as it turned out. The madman fired wildly, putting six beer can-sized holes through a Cutlass Supreme in the lane to my left. Unfortunately, the old lady behind the wheel was killed instantly. Don't expect me to feel too bad though. She was 87, which meant she'd already been soaking up social security for damn near a quarter-century.

The good news is, that guy's going away for a long time. And to think it all started 'cause I flicked him off for driving too slow. What did he expect? If you don't want the bird, don't drive like an asshole.

I Love Me Some Secretaries

Maybe you didn't know it, but today is National Secretary Day. So hugs and kisses to all you hot tomato secretaries out there. Sure, they call it "National Administrative Professionals Day" these days, but where I come from we call a spade a spade. Besides, if I didn't just pay you money for a rim job, you're no pro in my book.

So what did I do for my secretary? Same thing I do every year: gave her a dozen roses, a pinch on the ass, and a coupon for one free naked massage from yours truly. What can I say? I'm a classy guy. Especially when it comes to broads.

That's A Lot Of Pudding

Here's how it went down. I was using my new ZoomMaster 9000 telescope this morning. You know, taking the lay of the land. It's one of those big jobs, about the size of an oil drum with a lens that could burn a hole right through you if you were dumb enough to put it between you and the sun. Serious business, just like everything I do.

Anyway, I decided to take a peek at my neighbor's bathroom, and was lucky enough to catch Bob Laudermilk's wife, Ivette, as she was coming out of the shower. Talk about a goldmine. And by goldmine, I mean two very succulent hooters. I wouldn't mind burying my face in those beauties for an hour or so, that's for sure.

Better still, Bob works for me. Which means finagling some "quality time" with Ivette shouldn't be a problem. At least it better not, not if Bob still wants that promotion. And weasely little men like him always want a promotion.

Old People Suck Ass

So I went golfing today. Not the best weather for it -- overcast and drizzly throughout -- but nothing a rough customer like myself couldn't handle. Old people, however, are another matter.

Take the geezers who were playing ahead of my foursome, which included three very powerful Japanese businessmen. The old timers were slow as molasses, and brushed off all requests to play through.

"Cool your jets, sonny," said one, waving his 3-iron menacingly. "Goddamn kids today ain't got no patience!"

"You tell 'im, Harry," said another. "We didn't win dubya-dubya-two just to be talked down to by some Jap-loving tub of lard! Shove off, bozo!"

"Jesus," I muttered, then turned to the Japanese. "Listen Miyagis, you guys know kung fu, right? Why don't you bust it out and chase these old bastards out of here? I'm tired of waiting."

Well, for reasons I don't understand the Japanese guys took real offense to that, and were on a plane back to Tokyo within an hour. Which further meant I lost a lucrative contract. All 'cause those bluehairs wouldn't let us play through. Christ, I hate old people.

I'm Moving To British Columbia

Whether you people know it or not, you're being watched. That's right. Scroll down to the bottom of this page, then come back. Did you see those little red numbers down there? Yeah, they're from a company called StatCounter, and what they do is tell me who's been playing in my Funhouse, when they were here, and where they're from.

That's right. I know all about you regular readers in Florida, Texas, Virginia, Scotland, Germany, England, and elsewhere. And appreciate your business. Even the German dude. But the most intriguing visitors are the seemingly endless supply of nubile vixens from British Columbia, Canada, where I'm apparently worshipped as some kind of pagan god. Not that I can blame them.

So to all the BC babes with crushes on yours truly -- including Frodge, who linked me on her blog, and Hawaika -- big smooches from the big poppa. And don't hesitate to send me some "sporty" pictures of yourselves, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean naked pictures. The dirtier the better. I swear I'll still respect you afterwards.

Open Letter To Lars Ulrich

Dear Sir or Madam:

I recently had the misfortune of watching your band's documentary, Some Kind of Monster. As a result, I'm now aware of your deep hatred for people who steal your music. Well, get ready to hate me, 'cause I got a 60 gigabyte iPod a couple weeks ago and I've been filling it with every stolen song I can get my hands on. Including yours.

That's right. In a matter of days I had free digital copies of Kill 'Em All, Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets, ...And Justice for All, Load, ReLoad, Garage Inc., and Live Shit: Binge and Purge. And don't worry, I got all five discs of those last two.

Not that your music is particularly good, but it gets the job done. Especially when it's time to lash the troops down at the office. But most importantly? I didn't have to pay one red cent for any of it. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, nancy boy.

Sincerely,

Oswald J. Carver III
[Occupation Classified]

p.s. Psychiatrists are for pansies. Even more so when used in all-male group sessions. You pansy.

Why Shouldn't We Euthanize The Dumb?

Listen. Here's the thing. I don't ask much of the people who work for me. Show up more or less on time. Don't take longer lunches than I do. And for christ's sake, put the teensiest bit of professional care into your work.

Like I said, I'm not asking for much. But one of them can't even live up to those already low expectations.

"Parker!" I shouted from my office. "Parker!! What the hell is with this spreadsheet?"

"Mmm, what do you mean sir?" he said, suddenly materializing beside me.

"Gah! I told you to stop doing that, you creep!"

"Sorry sir."

"Sorry nothing! Look at this thing -- it looks like a frikkin' five-year-old did it! A retarded five-year-old at that!"

Parker got huffy at that point, like he always does when he's cornered. "How do you mean, sir?" he asked, blinking dumbly behind his coke bottle glasses.

"Look at it!" I shouted, waving it in his face. "It's done in crayon -- and on the back of a goddamn McDonald's Happy Meal placemat! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Mr. Carver, I have to say I don't appreciate being singled out like this," he said. That's when I lodged my foot so far up his ass they had to call in the Jaws of Life to turn me loose. Goddamn Parker.

Goddamn I Love Cheese

I just realized that. Funny how something can be right in front of your face for so long yet you keep on missing it. Oh well, better late than never. Needless to say, it's time for me to go eat some cheese. And plenty of it.

They Don't Call It Good Friday For Nothing

Or as I like to call it, The Day They Killed Jesus. But not before they whipped him to within an inch of his life, slapped a crown of thorns on his head, and made him march uphill carrying a giant wooden plank. Good times, man. Good times.

Sorry if you find that offensive. But frankly, if you worship a virginal hippie-turned-zombie savior, you deserve to be offended. Same goes for you Mohammed freaks, old-school Yahweh fanatics, Satan worshippers, Buddha followers, Confucius lovers and everything in-between. You're all useless, and you're bringing down my quality of life. Get real, scumbags.

Sweet Jesus, I Reek

I'll be honest with you. Outside of yesterday's ill-fated visit to Madame Ching's, I haven't left my palatial home in three days. You know, what with recovering from the gallstone operation and all.

So anyways, I ripped off a monstrous fart after dinner. Nothing unusual there. Except it made the room smell better. That's when I remembered I hadn't bathed since the last sponge bath at the hospital. And when you're as fat as I am, you can work up a sweat lying prone in an air-conditioned room. Trust me. Add it all up, and you've got a house full of stench that a whole team of Honduran cleaning women may not be able to get out.

Well, they'd better. Or there'll be hell to pay. You can trust me on that, too.

Of Course I Want A Happy Ending

This was me to Juanette, the new girl at Madame Ching's House of Exotic Massage. "I mean, shit. I'm paying good money, ain't I?"

That's when she burst into tears, going on and on about being the victim of a third world sex-slave racket, the abortion she had last month, her pedophiliac stepfather, etc. Frankly, I'd heard enough.

"Listen darling," I said, yanking the towel from my waist and dropping it on the floor. "Maybe you didn't get the memo, but you work in a massage parlor. A seedy massage parlor. One that specializes in handjobs for fat, moneyed men like myself. So a little less yapping and a little more willy-rubbing, huh?"

Well, for being such a "victim" she sure had a mean left cross -- one that requires immediate raw steak treatment for the black eye it gave me. Needless to say, I'll be taking all future massage business to Pete's Poontang Emporium, where the customer always comes first.

I've Been Indisposed

Sorry I haven't written to you in awhile, but I just had a gallstone removed. And let me tell you, it hurt like a bitch. This is no ordinary gallstone we're talking about. You could choke a baby with this thing. I might just do that, given the mood I'm in.

No, I have bigger plans for this beauty -- I'm having it set on a new pinky ring. I can't wait 'til the yes-men down at the office bend over and kiss it for the first time; that's gonna be hilarious.

I'm Not Listening To You People Anymore

Guess who just got a new iPod? That's right, me. Which means I'm never interacting with the larger world again.

I wasn't sure how much memory I'd need, so I went for broke with the 60 gigabyte "Black Beauty" with video capabilities. Imagine my surprise when the 125 songs or so that I listen to barely made a dent. Oh well. Guess this means I'll be walking around with a lot of porn videos in my pocket. You have been warned.

I've Got The Fear

I think I just swallowed a chicken bone. Like, an entire chicken bone. The whole thing. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that'll kill you. Or maybe that's dogs I'm thinking about. Meaning, dogs swallowing chicken bones. Not people swallowing dogs.

Either way, I gotta learn to slow down with chicken. Or switch to boneless. One of the two.

Daylight Savings Time Can Kiss My Ass

More like Daylight Bullshit Time if you ask me. This whole scam would actually make sense if they did it in winter, so it wouldn't be pitch black by 4:45 in the afternoon. No. They have to do it during summer, so we can all enjoy blinding daylight until nearly 10 o'clock at night. Thanks again, Congress.

The fact is, D.S.T. is just institutionalized chicanery designed to make us shop longer and drive more during the temperate summer months. Who profits? Big oil and city businessmen, of course. Look it up online if you're so inclined. I'd provide some links but I can't be bothered; I've got watermelon to eat and Slip 'n' Slides to master.

I Hate It When I Crap The Bed

It was another one of those mornings -- dreaming I was lying in a muddy field, only to wake up to the sharp smell of fresh shit. What a bother. Not to mention embarrassing, seeing as two whores were in bed with me.

Oh well, it's not like I have to clean it up; the maid'll be here inside an hour. If she doesn't like it, she can lump it.

Shut Up And Make Me Some Tacos

Here's the set up. I decide to get lunch at Taco Bell today, and had my usual battery of four spicy chicken burritos, four classic hard shell tacos, two Mexican Pizzas and a Nacho Bell Grande. Plus, a large Mountain Dew. I grab a seat with my back to the wall -- you know, in case anyone's trying to get the drop on me -- and dig in.

That's when I noticed the constant stream of chatter coming from two tables over. It was the store manager, some 20-year-old punk, giving a performance review to one of the Bell's employees. Which is fine, but this idiot peppered everything he said with money cult codewords like "sensitivities," "challenges," "goals," "opportunities," "going forward," and the like.

But not a single goddamn word about tacos.

Next thing that kid knows, my monstrously fat hand is slapping the Taco Bell hat right off his head. Then I pulled him up by his collar and growled:

"Listen, meathead. You work at Taco Bell. Got it? Taco. Bell. There are neither challenges, nor opportunites, at this level. Now shut the hell up and go make some tacos."

Mission accomplished, I hightailed it out of there before the pigs showed. But not before grabbing a to-go bag for the remainder of my meal. Hey, a man's gotta eat. Especially one as fat as me.

You're Looking At Jeopardy!'s Next Big Winner

Bank on it. 'Cause in less than 15 minutes, I'll be taking Jeopardy!'s "Online Contestant Test."

I just hope I make it to the "Showcase Showdown" once I qualify. I wouldn't mind getting an up-close look at those knockers on Barker's Beauties, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean I want to ogle their tits. A-oo-gah.

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UPDATE: Looks like I had my game shows mixed up. Apparently they just ask you a lot of hard questions on Jeapordy!, without any boobies in sight. Much less any exciting prize packages. They can go to hell.

Speaking Of Big Pussy

Say, when is Redd Foxx going to do another season of Sanford & Son? I just started catching the reruns on cable, and that shit is out of sight! Hopefully Redd will stop being crazy and work things out with Comedy Central so we can all get back to the funny.

I'll tell you what's not funny on Comedy Central, though: that new Daily Show reporter, Dan "The Hack" Bakkedahl. His jokes are stale, he's physically repulsive, and his complete and utter baldness makes me look like Fabio by comparison. Bakkedahl, feh. He's no Redd Foxx, that's for sure. Or is that Cedric the Entertainer I'm thinking of?

Sweet Success

The rumors are true; I tracked down a copy of '74 Jailbreak earlier today. I had to go into the city to get it, and as always the urban record store hipsters did not let me down.

"Have it?" scoffed the burly counter boy. "We got loads. And by the way, March is Mustache Madness Month."

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked.

"Means if you had a 'stache, you'd get a dollar off every fifteen dollar purchase you make. But you ain't got no 'stache, so you're out of luck." He then stroked his own mustache condescendingly.

Whatever. At least I got the album, and I've listened to "Jailbreak" so many times in a row I'm ready to go punch a cop. Wish me luck.

Damn You Sony, Damn You To Hell

Here's the word: I have a fever, and the only prescription is AC/DC's "Jailbreak." Not a live version, not a cover, and not the Thin Lizzy tune. I'm talking about the studio version off of '74 Jailbreak, and I'm not accepting any substitutes.

No luck finding it at any local record stores, or even Best Buy or Circuit City. And I'm not wasting my time going to Wal-Mart or Target. No. Being a man of the 21st century I said to myself, "Self, let's buy it online."

So to iTunes I went; no go. Then I got desperate, scanning through hundreds of pages of Google listings. I found a weird German techno version and picked up three pieces of easily dispatched spyware, but still not the real thing. Unless I'm willing to trust my credit information to an obvious pirate outfit that uses hundreds of fake "redirect" sites. Seeing as I'm not a retard, I'll pass.

All of which indicates that Sony's music division is still stuck in the neoplantationary record company mindset of the mid-to-late 20th Century, for which they deserve the finger. And if any of this blog's readers wants to slip me a copy of "Jailbreak" on the sly, the RCAA certainly won't hear about it from me. Or will they?!?

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UPDATE: You can't even buy it from Sony's "Connect" store -- the only AC/DC they offer for download is something called "Maximum AC/DC," and it's a spoken word unauthorized biography. Screw you, Sony. Screw you.

I'm Not Wearing Any Pants

It's true, I'm not. Intrigued yet, ladies? You should be. I'm talking about 350 pounds of love meat poured into a leopard skin speedo, waiting to give you pleasure unlike any you've ever imagined.

Tell me you're not getting hot and I'll call you a goddamn liar. Drop the charade, your inhibitions, and your pants; we're on a collision course with amore. Toot toot!

Viva Mexico

Today was my first day back at work after a three-day weekend. Not fun, to say the least. So I decided to take the edge off by having lunch at El Toro, the best Mexican eatery in town.

I gotta say, I love all things Mexicano: the language, the food, the liquor, the super-shady hats, the crazy pistol shooting, the masked wrestlers, the cultural significance of naps, the donkeys, the works. Not to mention how easy and inexpensive it is to get their women into the sack. But I digress.

Right, El Toro. I had two double burrito platters, and chased each one with a shot of the house's hottest hot sauce. The kind you have to ask for special if you're a gringo. But I never have to ask; they know me there.

Sometimes You Have To Stop, Smell Roses

I won't lie to you; I would normally be at work right now. But I took today off. Mind you, I didn't call out "sick." I don't abide that kind of un-American behavior. No, I put in for this day over a month ago, well within my company's vacation guidelines.

I was going to do a lot today. You know, run those millions of little bullshit errands that just can't be done on a weekend. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I took the biggest shit of my life not five minutes after waking up. It was majestic, an epic act of personal cleansing and renewal unlike anything I'd experienced before. In fact, a number of feces-centric cultures are already creating songs, paintings and other works of art in my bowel movement's honor. It was that good.

That said, the whole ordeal left me with such a sense of accomplishment that I can't be bothered to do anything else today. If you need me, I'll be taking in a marathon Playboy TV session from the comfort of my vibrating chair. Ta-ta.

Pigs Suck

Guess who just got a speeding ticket? Here's a hint -- you're reading his blog right now.

The pig "caught" me doing 63 in a 45 zone. On a six-lane, non-residential roadway. What bullshit. Especially considering that the only people who drive slower than 60 in such conditions are old women and retards. Of which I am neither.

At any rate, it's $80 down the drain. Guess I'll have to forego my usual Saturday night prostitute this week. In the meantime, here's hoping that pig catches cancer from his radar gun. Testicular cancer.

Just Bag My Groceries, Moron

"Paper or plastic, sir?"

I did a double-take when the bagboy said this... because he was former Miami Dolphins "head coach" Dave Wannstedt!

"Dave Wannstedt?" I said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm, uh, working," he said, sheepishly. "Uh, paper or plastic?"

"Plastic," I said. "But seriously. Why are you here? I thought you were 'coaching' at the Pitt?"

"Uh, yeah, I was. But they, uh, they fired me."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

"Uh, they read about how current Dolphins Head Coach Nick Saban got the world's most monstrous, terrifying, explosive quarterback, Daunte Culpepper, for a second round draft pick."

"What? Why would a college fire you because an NFL head coach was able to get a franchise QB for a song?"

"Because, uh, when I was 'head coach' of the Dolphins, I used a second round draft pick to get, uh, A.J. Feeley. Who was a, uh, second- or third-string QB for Philly at the time. And, uh, hadn't even played a full season."

"Eww. Ur... wow."

"Yeah. So the Dean pulled me into his office and fired me, saying he didn't want an idiot as big as me anywhere near his school."

"Well, I can certainly understand that," I said, laughing. But as it turned out, the laugh was on me; Wannstedt was just as bad at bagging groceries as he was at coaching football, leaving me with squished bread, broken eggs and food that tasted like bleach and chemicals.

What a tool.

I'm Badly Constipated

Dear sweet lord in heaven, it's like my bowels are locked tight with super glue. I've tried everything: greasy food, hot sauce, liquor. Nothing works. I'm doomed.

Then again, maybe a rim job from one of Madame Ching's skilled masseuses would do the trick. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Where's The Next-Gen Aerosol Cheese?

I'm tired of hearing about "next-gen" video game systems, cellphones, computers, etc. Never mind all that. It's time to get serious. It's time to bring Cheez Whiz into the 21st century.

It was created in what, 1942? Wasn't it part of the war effort or something? Regardless, we're long overdue for a successor. Hell, isn't that why we have scientists? To invent bigger and better things? Shit or get off the pot, you eggheads.

Come Back C.C.C.P., I Miss You

Remember the Soviet Union? That cool hammer-and-sickle flag? And the uniforms? Not to mention their nuclear capabilities. That's what I call an appropriate enemy for the good ol' U.S. of A.

Not like these goddamn Islamic terrorists. Just a bunch of bearded nuts living in caves, blowing the shit out of school busses and whatnot. They don't even have their own country, for christ's sake -- they're homeless! And Osama bin Laden? Well, let's just say he's no Josef Stalin and leave it at that.

We should see about bringing the Russkies back. I bet Vladimir Putin would be up for it. Glasnost never would've happened under his watch, that's for sure.

Hitting A Child Isn't Necessarily Abuse

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

This was a dumpy, middle-aged woman, presumably the mother of the young boy I had in a half-Nelson. We were standing in the dairy aisle of my local grocery store.

"Giving this brat a long-overdue lesson in manners," I replied, landing another sharp blow across the back of the child's head. Then, to the boy: "That'll teach you to call attention to my girth, you little shit!"

Next thing I know I'm being dragged away by a squad of cops and booked on some trumped up child endangerment charges. My attorney will quickly deal with that nonsense, but you can bet that kid will never forget the feel of my fist on his noggin. Especially when you consider how fat I am.

I Just Ate A Baby

At least, the equivalent of one. Picture it, if you will: a four-pound N.Y. strip steak marinated in garlic and whiskey, seared to a perfect medium rare. It was served with a fully loaded baked potato, a half cup of horseradish and an entire loaf of buttered bread. Moreover, it was preceded by a caesar salad and topped off with cherries jubilee, a glass of brandy and a fine cigar.

But enough of that. Time for me to lay on my stomach for the next hour or so, then go find a whore who doesn't mind a bit of the rough stuff. Cheers.

Good Old-Fashioned Fun

Heh. Heh heh.

That's three nights in a row I've crapped in my neighbor's lawn.

Stop Snitching

Right. So I was looking at some online porn at work today, just like I always do after lunch. That's when I heard someone gasp behind me.

"Oh my god!" This was Gus the Copyboy, who promptly dropped the stack of papers he'd been holding. He was white as a ghost, and did some sort of weird, cross-like voodoo ritual over his face and chest.

"What's a matter, boy?" I asked, retrieving his dropped papers. Recognizing them as work orders, I promptly placed them in the circular file. "Ain't you never seen a woman go down on a horse before?"

Long story short, he hadn't, and the end result was him taking an unfortunate tumble down the emergency stairs before he could make it to HR's offices. Word to the wise.

Who Doesn't Like Hooters?

Not me, that's for sure. And I'm not talking about the low-rent restaurant chain with the tackily dressed call girls working as waitresses; I'm talking about nice, round, fleshy boobs. Hurray!

Show me a person who says they don't love boobies, and I'll show you a liar. Men love them. Women love them. Children love them. Hell, at least half of all homosexuals even love them. I mean, shit; it's a proven scientific fact that babies who aren't fed via the hot tit injection turn out to be psychopathic killers! So... Viva la Boobies!!!

Incidentally, if any of this blog's female readers would like to send me pictures of their hooters, they certainly wouldn't wind up in my junk mail folder. If you know what I'm saying.