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.