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.