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.

The Guys At The Office Are Gonna Love This

Yeah, so, I hear you've been looking for me. Too bad -- I've been busy. Busy with business, dammit, and make no mistake: the business of Oswald Carver is most assuredly business. And business is good.

Unfortunately, good business inevitably comes hand in hand with a strained labor force. Which is why I decided to splurge and buy a motivational poster for the office. You know, one of those slickly produced signs with a tranquil image and some sage words underneath, all set around a central theme: Perserverance, Endurance, Stubbornness and the like.

At any rate, here's the one my staff will be enjoying come tomorrow; "click for a larger version," as they say. Also, if you're interested in getting one for your own office, might I recommend this site? Their custom craftsmanship is unparalleled -- tell 'em Oz sent you.

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Like My Sabbath Like I Like My Coffee

The day started in one godawful manner. I was sleeping comfortably in my luxurious king-sized bed when my slumber was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a lawnmower. I tossed and turned a bit, but to no avail. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was only 8:30. 8:30! Someone was going to get a piece of my mind, that was certain.

"Who the hell mows their lawn this early?" asked Trixie, the whore who was in bed with me at the time.

"A very sorry individual, if I have anything to say about it," I said. I threw on a robe and stormed out into the cruel light of day. My new neighbor, Greg Bendemix, was tearing it up like nobody's business on the back of a high-powered riding lawnmower.

"Bendemix! Bendemix!!" I shouted, getting his attention. He shut down the mower and walked towards me.

"Morning Oz," he said with an easy grin. "What's cooking?"

"Cut the shit, Bendemix. What's the big idea, mowing your lawn at 8:30 in the morning?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry about that. Wanted to get it done before me and Marsha take the kids to church. You know, so I can watch the rest of the draft later."

"Church?! Listen shithead, next time you inconvenience me so you can go bow to some pagan god, I'm dousing gasoline all over this lawn of yours, got it? Then I'm driving down to your stupid little church, taking a nice, fat dump on the altar, and using the run-off to sign your name to the deed. Do we have an understanding?!?"

I guess my message got through, 'cause Bendemix went white as a ghost and nodded. One of his kids had come outside to watch the exchange, and was now bawling in the doorway. I smiled.

"Besides, what kind of welfare recipient doesn't have a lawn service in this day and age? Stop being so tightfisted and put some deserving Mexicans to work, you cheap bastard."

With that, I went back inside and enjoyed a rigorous session with Trixie. Then, while Bendemix and his family were off at church, I severed the cable line leading to their house. Where's his Jesus now, hmm? Where is his Jesus now?

Why Shouldn't We Euthanize The Dumb?

Listen. Here's the thing. I don't ask much of the people who work for me. Show up more or less on time. Don't take longer lunches than I do. And for christ's sake, put the teensiest bit of professional care into your work.

Like I said, I'm not asking for much. But one of them can't even live up to those already low expectations.

"Parker!" I shouted from my office. "Parker!! What the hell is with this spreadsheet?"

"Mmm, what do you mean sir?" he said, suddenly materializing beside me.

"Gah! I told you to stop doing that, you creep!"

"Sorry sir."

"Sorry nothing! Look at this thing -- it looks like a frikkin' five-year-old did it! A retarded five-year-old at that!"

Parker got huffy at that point, like he always does when he's cornered. "How do you mean, sir?" he asked, blinking dumbly behind his coke bottle glasses.

"Look at it!" I shouted, waving it in his face. "It's done in crayon -- and on the back of a goddamn McDonald's Happy Meal placemat! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Mr. Carver, I have to say I don't appreciate being singled out like this," he said. That's when I lodged my foot so far up his ass they had to call in the Jaws of Life to turn me loose. Goddamn Parker.

Shut Up And Make Me Some Tacos

Here's the set up. I decide to get lunch at Taco Bell today, and had my usual battery of four spicy chicken burritos, four classic hard shell tacos, two Mexican Pizzas and a Nacho Bell Grande. Plus, a large Mountain Dew. I grab a seat with my back to the wall -- you know, in case anyone's trying to get the drop on me -- and dig in.

That's when I noticed the constant stream of chatter coming from two tables over. It was the store manager, some 20-year-old punk, giving a performance review to one of the Bell's employees. Which is fine, but this idiot peppered everything he said with money cult codewords like "sensitivities," "challenges," "goals," "opportunities," "going forward," and the like.

But not a single goddamn word about tacos.

Next thing that kid knows, my monstrously fat hand is slapping the Taco Bell hat right off his head. Then I pulled him up by his collar and growled:

"Listen, meathead. You work at Taco Bell. Got it? Taco. Bell. There are neither challenges, nor opportunites, at this level. Now shut the hell up and go make some tacos."

Mission accomplished, I hightailed it out of there before the pigs showed. But not before grabbing a to-go bag for the remainder of my meal. Hey, a man's gotta eat. Especially one as fat as me.

Damn You Sony, Damn You To Hell

Here's the word: I have a fever, and the only prescription is AC/DC's "Jailbreak." Not a live version, not a cover, and not the Thin Lizzy tune. I'm talking about the studio version off of '74 Jailbreak, and I'm not accepting any substitutes.

No luck finding it at any local record stores, or even Best Buy or Circuit City. And I'm not wasting my time going to Wal-Mart or Target. No. Being a man of the 21st century I said to myself, "Self, let's buy it online."

So to iTunes I went; no go. Then I got desperate, scanning through hundreds of pages of Google listings. I found a weird German techno version and picked up three pieces of easily dispatched spyware, but still not the real thing. Unless I'm willing to trust my credit information to an obvious pirate outfit that uses hundreds of fake "redirect" sites. Seeing as I'm not a retard, I'll pass.

All of which indicates that Sony's music division is still stuck in the neoplantationary record company mindset of the mid-to-late 20th Century, for which they deserve the finger. And if any of this blog's readers wants to slip me a copy of "Jailbreak" on the sly, the RCAA certainly won't hear about it from me. Or will they?!?

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UPDATE: You can't even buy it from Sony's "Connect" store -- the only AC/DC they offer for download is something called "Maximum AC/DC," and it's a spoken word unauthorized biography. Screw you, Sony. Screw you.

Just Bag My Groceries, Moron

"Paper or plastic, sir?"

I did a double-take when the bagboy said this... because he was former Miami Dolphins "head coach" Dave Wannstedt!

"Dave Wannstedt?" I said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm, uh, working," he said, sheepishly. "Uh, paper or plastic?"

"Plastic," I said. "But seriously. Why are you here? I thought you were 'coaching' at the Pitt?"

"Uh, yeah, I was. But they, uh, they fired me."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

"Uh, they read about how current Dolphins Head Coach Nick Saban got the world's most monstrous, terrifying, explosive quarterback, Daunte Culpepper, for a second round draft pick."

"What? Why would a college fire you because an NFL head coach was able to get a franchise QB for a song?"

"Because, uh, when I was 'head coach' of the Dolphins, I used a second round draft pick to get, uh, A.J. Feeley. Who was a, uh, second- or third-string QB for Philly at the time. And, uh, hadn't even played a full season."

"Eww. Ur... wow."

"Yeah. So the Dean pulled me into his office and fired me, saying he didn't want an idiot as big as me anywhere near his school."

"Well, I can certainly understand that," I said, laughing. But as it turned out, the laugh was on me; Wannstedt was just as bad at bagging groceries as he was at coaching football, leaving me with squished bread, broken eggs and food that tasted like bleach and chemicals.

What a tool.

Hitting A Child Isn't Necessarily Abuse

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

This was a dumpy, middle-aged woman, presumably the mother of the young boy I had in a half-Nelson. We were standing in the dairy aisle of my local grocery store.

"Giving this brat a long-overdue lesson in manners," I replied, landing another sharp blow across the back of the child's head. Then, to the boy: "That'll teach you to call attention to my girth, you little shit!"

Next thing I know I'm being dragged away by a squad of cops and booked on some trumped up child endangerment charges. My attorney will quickly deal with that nonsense, but you can bet that kid will never forget the feel of my fist on his noggin. Especially when you consider how fat I am.

Get The Hell Out Of The Left Lane

Seriously, what is it with you retards? Puttering along, sometimes not even doing the goddamned speed limit, and god's holy bunghole forbid you should ever get the hell out of the way of faster traffic, no matter how wide the football field is to the right of you!!

Schmucks. One of these days I'm going to toss a firebomb right through your windshields. Then we'll see who's playing it safe, you worthless speedaphobics.

Homeless People Are Filthy, Disgusting

Okay. I was walking down the street earlier today, enjoying a cruller and minding my own business, when this dirty, smelly bum cuts in front of me.

"Hey buddy," he said. "Y'got anah spare change?"

"Hell no," I said. Which was a lie; I had loads in my right front pocket, and jingled it loudly as we talked. "What do I look like, UNICEF?"

"No," he admitted.

"Damn straight. You want some cheese from me, you gotta work for it. Comprende? You got any skills?"

"Uh..." he said, scratching his head. Then the ol' light bulb flicked on. "Wait, I know! Big Steve down at the shelter says I'm real good at sucking cock. Whaddya say?"

"What do I--?!?" I gasped in disgust. "I say get out of my sight, you worthless piece of shit!"

I gave him a solid kick in the ass for emphasis, and the crusty old bastard stumbled off to whatever oblivion awaits him. Then I felt bad, so I picked up a whore and paid her with the change the bum had wanted. Why? Because I'm all about watching after my karma, baby.