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.
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.
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.
"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.
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?
Don't get me wrong, it's a damn good show. And that's coming from a man who hates science fiction. In fact, I once set fire to a kid back in high school shop class 'cause he was always going on about robots and spaceships and all that crazy shit. But that's not the point. The point is, Battlestar Galactica isn't a great show for one simple reason: no naked boobies.
I mean, goddamn. What's the use in changing half the male characters from the original series into chicks if they're not going to pop their tops on a regular basis? Hello? Even the space whore in season 2 didn't get naked on camera -- what the hell was that all about? It's like hiring a monkey and not forcing it to eat a banana.
Speaking of hiring, maybe I should give Madame Ching's a call to see if they've got any whores who look like Boomer. You know, bring the mountain to Mohammed. I'll let you know how it works out.
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 don't even know what to say about this one. Here's the set-up: I'd invited Shaniqua, the prematurely dismissed whore from my ill-fated dinner party, to my place this evening for a little quality time. Make no mistake, though -- by "quality time," I mean hardcore dirty monkey sex. And plenty of it.
Now, longtime visitors to this blog will recall my fondness for rim jobs. Fortunately for me, this isn't just a service Shaniqua's willing to provide; it's her specialty. Unfortunately for her, I had Mexican for lunch. Lots of Mexican. Which, for me, inevitably means corresponding levels of diarrhea. You do the math.
Not that it was all bad. I mean, I did gain a new fetish. You gotta take your victories where you can find them, folks.
"...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!
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.
How's it hanging? Been awhile, huh? Yeah, I'm out of rehab. That's old news. Truth be told, I haven't made any new posts in like a month 'cause I'd completely forgotten about this blog. If it hadn't been for my semi-annual Google search for my own name, chances are it would've gone missing a lot longer.
Oh well. Not much new going on here; still earning obscene amounts of money, ogling and/or propositioning women, using far more than my fair share of the world's resources, and generally making an ass of myself. Still, I'll see if I can't get back to posting a little more regularly. Shit, if that twat Arianna Huffington can do it, anyone can. Peace out.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Okay, that was a mistake.
Doc Stinebrau's been on me for months about getting into shape. Says a third heart attack is inevitable if I don't change my diet and start exercising. Given that the former's out of the question, I decided to partially humor him by picking up some kind of physical activity. I went with rollerblading, thinking it'd be a good way to meet chicks.
Yeah, well, like mother would say: Think in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first. Only she would actually make me do it.
But I digress. Long story short, I didn't meet any chicks. In fact, I didn't make it more than three wobbly feet before crashing on my ass, much to the delight of some neighborhood children playing across the street. And let me tell you, a man as large as me doesn't fall softly; it's going to take a city work crew to fill the crack I made.
So now I'm back at the hospital, being tended to by a team of skilled doctors and attractive nurses for what amounts to a busted ass. On the plus side, it means plenty of complimentary sponge baths. Without having to pay any whores.
