Yes, So I Was Off By A Week

The astute amongst you -- and it should be noted that I have my doubts as to whether any blog readers can claim that quality -- will recall that I said my brother Roderick, his family, and my mother were arriving last Wednesday for Thanksgiving. Turns out I had my dates mixed up, as they actually arrived earlier today. Which makes a lot more sense when you think about it.

Either way, they're here till Saturday. Which means the next three days are going to suck long, and they will suck hard. The only saving grace is that Roderick's oldest daughter, Tabitha, is developing quite nicely. But get your minds out of the gutter. I don't want to perform coitus on the lass. I just want to ogle her a bit. No crime in that, friends.

For christ's sake. Mother just shit herself, spoiling my fine Corinthian leather sofa in the process. When is that woman going to die and stop making my life a living hell? Oh well; time for me to rouse the houseboy. Hell, you don't expect me to clean it up, do you? After all, I have company to entertain.

If There's One Thing I Hate, It's My Family

Yeah, yeah, so I haven't updated in over a week. So what.

In case you hadn't noticed, the country went to hell in a hand basket last Tuesday. As a result, I've had bigger things on my mind. Like the hit my lifestyle's going to take once the democrats get their goddamn tax machines up and running. Or how I'm going to hold onto all my cheap labor after they re-tighten their regulatory screws. I mean, shit, do you have any idea what it costs to hire an American houseboy? Plenty, that's what.

As if that wasn't misery enough, today I got a telegram from my brother Roderick, reminding me that it's my turn to host Thanksgiving. He says he'll be here Wednesday night. Plus, he's bringing his cunt wife and their shit-eating kids. And, oh yeah, mother.

So there goes my weekend. Here's hoping your's will be just as shitty.

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.