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.