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.