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.

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.

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?

Goddamn I Love A Good Cockfight

Get your minds out of the gutter. For one, what you're thinking of is a swordfight. For two, I'm talking about the Sport of Kings. No, not that one. The other Sport of Kings. The one that involves two roosters tearing themselves to shreds for the amusement of drunken, howling bettors. Right, that one.

So anyhow, it was a good night. Every cock I bet on won. What's more, I spent the winnings on the ugliest Mexican whore I could find, then gave her a savage beating in a roach-infested motel strategically located behind an abortion clinic. What can I say? I was on a bad side of town. People live like animals over there, and they deserve what they get.

Alright, I gotta split -- I shit my pants on the drive home, and need to wake the houseboy and tell him to go scrub down the Hummer's interior before feces soaks into the fine Corinthian leather seats. Then it's straight to bed for me. I would take a shower first, but I'm beat, and what do I care if my sheets get shitty? It's not like I'm the one who has to wash them, right?

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!

Cigarettes Are For Assholes

So I come home from work tonight, and what do I find? My houseboy, Kang, smoking a cigarette on the front porch like nobody's business. To make matters worse, he was wearing a porkpie hat and my favorite pair of sunglasses.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I barked, expecting him to scuttle away like most children do when faced with my righteous fury. But the past few months of servitude must've inoculated him, 'cause he didn't even flinch.

"Hey, screw you Mistah Boss," he snarled in rapidly developing, but still broken, English. "Me on break. You make own martini, Mistah Boss."

"Break?" I said. "Who the hell said anything about breaks?"

"Mistah Federal Government, that who!"

"Mister Fed..! Look, that's not even the point. The point is, when did you start smoking?"

"Me smoke long time," he said. "Always on break. But you, you no let me take no break. So you no see me smoke. Me forced to smoke at night, under the covers."

"Under the--! Holy shit, kid! You could've burned my palatial estate right down to the ground."

"Feh," he said, waving me off as he picked up a dog-eared copy of People. "Your insurance cover it plenty, Mistah Boss. Besides, how me supposed to be cool if me don't smoke?"

"Yeah, okay. I guess you got a point. Go ahead. After all, the surgeon general just announced that smoking doesn't cause cancer at all. Or any kind of disease!"

"Really?"

"Yep! So smoke up, kid. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Mistah Boss," he said. "Now get out of here so me can enjoy me break."

Well, that settles it; time to pack up Kang and trade him in for a new houseboy. Good news is, the United States' third world business partners are constantly churning out fresh batches of devastatingly destitute children just like the little shit, so finding a replacement shouldn't be too difficult.

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 Admiral Oz To You

Yeah, so I bought a yacht. She's a Princess 25M, which I've dubbed the Donkey Punch. Nothing too fancy, just enough to separate me from the ever-growing number of people who can afford cabin cruisers. You know, keeping ahead of the Joneses and all that.

The only drawback is having to add a full-time captain and mate to my personal payroll. But that's a small price to pay to be secure in the knowledge I can take my yacht out at a moment's notice with trusted hands at the wheel. Besides, I'm fairly certain that employing a captain legally makes me a commodore, if not an admiral.

I'll learn soon enough; tomorrow I'm taking a couple of business associates and some whores out on the Donkey Punch's maiden voyage. But first, I'm off to the mall to buy suitable yachting attire -- I'm thinking something L. Ron Hubbard-ish. And maybe get a thong wax. We'll see.

I'm Not A Pervert

I was relaxing on the front porch earlier today, enjoying a pitcher of mimosas and perusing the morning paper when two scantily clad hussies came frolicking up the walk. I got excited, thinking they might be whores.

"Hello sir," one of them said.

"Are you the man of the house?" asked the other.

"Well. Let's put it this way," I said, smiling. "If someone around here's sporting more wood than me, I don't want to know about it. Eh?"

The girls flashed uncomfortable looks at each other, then the blonder of the two continued.

"Yeah, well, we're like selling magazine subscriptions? For our school trip?"

"Yeah. Do you want to, like, buy any?"

"School?" I said, momentarily distracted from my minute inspection of their cleavage. "What college would that be?"

"Oh, we don't go to college."

"Nah, we're at St. Huggins Academy. Go Nuns!"

A considerable pool of sweat had formed on my brow, the result of my brain run wild with debauched fantasies pressed upon it by these girls' shapely bodies. I produced a silk handkerchief and patted myself dry.

"N-nuns? Nunsense. Eh, nonsense. You're too old to be in high school. You're both twenty, right? Eighteen at the youngest."

"Nah, I'm sixteen, and Ginger's fifteen."

"Fifteen-and-a-half," Ginger offered.

"What's that? Eighteen?"

"No... hey, maybe we should be going."

"Hmm? No, no -- uh, why don't you come in and look at my massive art erection? Er, collection."

But they were already on the move, muttering to themselves about the creepy old perverts who apparently live in this neighborhood. At that moment Kang came out to freshen my pitcher, hissing and spitting as he did.

"You're right, my boy," I said. "They were a couple of bitches." Then I tossed Kang's lunch, a handful of peanuts and grapefruit rinds, into a nearby bush, and howled with laughter as he scampered after the dirty pittance. What can I say? I'm not the type of guy to let women get me down. Especially when they're cockteases.

I've Hired A Houseboy

Goddamn, this is going to make my life so much easier. Maids, cooks and gardeners are all well and good, but to really live large one needs a houseboy. Sure, you could go the butler route. But they're so damn stuffy, and inevitably think they're better than you. Houseboys, on the other hand, know their place.

Anyhow, the kid's name is Kang. He'll be answering the phone, greeting visitors, making cocktails, etc., all at a very reasonable rate. The only drawback is he doesn't speak a lick of English, being a native Mongolian or some such shit. No matter; as long as he knows how to fetch slippers and mix a decent martini, we'll get along famously.

Hands Off My Mexicans

I tell you. As a lifelong Republican and former Nixon Youth, I never imagined I'd find myself cursing out a G.O.P. President. Yet I do it every single time George "Shit-Eyes" Bush addresses the nation. Tonight was no exception.

"In Washington, the debate over immigration reform has reached a time of decision," his speechwriters tell us. Bush's decision? Wasting even more tax dollars by using the National Guard as border patrol. The same National Guard that signed up for "just one weekend a month," only to wind up serving as target practice for crazed Islamic jihadists in Afghanistan and Iraq for the past 3 or 4 years. On behalf of National Guardsmen everywhere, I call bullshit on that.

More importantly, if we don't let in any new Mexicans, where am I going to get more gardeners, maids and cooks to the replace the ones who quit over alleged mental and physical abuse? I don't abuse them, of course. They just say I do, then quit and try to sue me. Whatever.

Bottom line, I'm constantly in need of fresh Mexicans and don't need Bush cutting off my supply. That, and life would be much easier if social workers didn't believe every crazy abuse story they hear from some dirty immigrant.

I Hate It When I Crap The Bed

It was another one of those mornings -- dreaming I was lying in a muddy field, only to wake up to the sharp smell of fresh shit. What a bother. Not to mention embarrassing, seeing as two whores were in bed with me.

Oh well, it's not like I have to clean it up; the maid'll be here inside an hour. If she doesn't like it, she can lump it.