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.

Don't Nobody Go In The Bathroom For 35, 45 Days

Good god. I'm actually ashamed of myself. Myself and the 20-pound brown baby boy I just dropped off at the pool, if you get my drift. If you don't, I mean I just took a shit large enough to choke a horse. Hear me now?

Don't get me wrong -- I love a good shit. Moreover, few do it better or with more regularity than yours truly. But some things were never meant to see the light of day. And that... that... monstrosity I just left in the bathroom? It's one of them.

Double damn. My houseboy, Kang, just walked past the bathroom door and dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. Here's hoping smelling salts will bring him around, 'cause christ knows I'm not in the mood to answer a lot of stupid questions from Immigration.

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!

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.

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.

This Is A Dark Day For American Business

"Kenny Boy!" I said. I was on the phone with my longtime friend and mentor, Ken Lay, just hours after he and Jeff Skilling were convicted of a laundry list of trumped up charges related to the so-called Enron scandal. "It's me, Oz. I just heard the news. This is terrible!"

"Tell me about it," he said. "Those cocksuckers on the jury wouldn't know justice if it snuck up and bit 'em on the ass. I mean, conspiracy? What the hell is that all about?"

"It's preposterous," I assured him. "The whole thing is preposterous. I'm sure you'll be exonerated on appeal."

"I hope so, old friend," he said. "I mean, what I did, I did out of necessity. Not fraud. Necessity's the mother of invention, okay? And I needed money, so I invented a way to get it. Hell, everyone needs money, right?"

"Damn straight. And plenty of it, if they know what's good for them."

"See? Just like everyone else, Jeff and I needed money. Lots and lots of money."

"Nothing more American than that."

"Exactly. But unlike most of the mouth-breathers out there, we were smart enough to figure out how to make bazillions of it, without even breaking a sweat."

"And you did it in style."

"Bingo. So where's the goddamn crime, huh? Tell me where the crime is. Where is it? Where?!"

"The only crime I see is a good man like you having to spend his golden years in a jail cell."

"Jail cell? Oh god!" he cried, bursting into tears. "What am I going to do, Oz? What am I going to do?!"

"Well, for starters you can stop crying. You know it nauseates me to hear a man cry."

"Y-you're right," he said, sniffling. "I'll st-stop."

"Good. Look, I've gotta run. Let me know if you need anything, 'k?"

"Will do, buddy. Can I count on you for visits?"

"What, and risk getting shanked by one of your fellow prisoners? No thanks. I will drop in on Linda from time to time, though. Ta ta."

I hung up and shivered, thoroughly disgusted by Ken's sob scene. Still, it's a real tragedy to think of him sitting behind bars for the next 20-30 years. Wait, holy shit! This must be how the native South Africans felt when Nelson Mandela got locked up! No wonder they were so happy when he finally got paroled. Well, hopefully I'll get to experience the same jubilation with Kenny Boy one day.

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.

That's A Lot Of Blood

And it's all over my bedroom. To make matters worse? I have no idea where it came from.

So, it looks like I have some work to do. Breathe a word of this to the cops and I swear you're next.

Open Letter To Lars Ulrich

Dear Sir or Madam:

I recently had the misfortune of watching your band's documentary, Some Kind of Monster. As a result, I'm now aware of your deep hatred for people who steal your music. Well, get ready to hate me, 'cause I got a 60 gigabyte iPod a couple weeks ago and I've been filling it with every stolen song I can get my hands on. Including yours.

That's right. In a matter of days I had free digital copies of Kill 'Em All, Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets, ...And Justice for All, Load, ReLoad, Garage Inc., and Live Shit: Binge and Purge. And don't worry, I got all five discs of those last two.

Not that your music is particularly good, but it gets the job done. Especially when it's time to lash the troops down at the office. But most importantly? I didn't have to pay one red cent for any of it. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, nancy boy.

Sincerely,

Oswald J. Carver III
[Occupation Classified]

p.s. Psychiatrists are for pansies. Even more so when used in all-male group sessions. You pansy.

Pigs Suck

Guess who just got a speeding ticket? Here's a hint -- you're reading his blog right now.

The pig "caught" me doing 63 in a 45 zone. On a six-lane, non-residential roadway. What bullshit. Especially considering that the only people who drive slower than 60 in such conditions are old women and retards. Of which I am neither.

At any rate, it's $80 down the drain. Guess I'll have to forego my usual Saturday night prostitute this week. In the meantime, here's hoping that pig catches cancer from his radar gun. Testicular cancer.