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.

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?

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!

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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.

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.