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?

Fire It Up

The grill, that is. I just sent the maid to Piggly Wiggly for a score of their finest New York strip steaks, and I don't plan on sleeping 'til at least half of them are resting in my belly. Comfortably or not.

The key to such a feat is pacing. Put the first five down too fast, and you're good for nothing but lying on your stomach for the rest of the day. No. I recommend no more than two per hour. Assuming you want to go the distance, that is.

That Was A Close Call

Well. Things certainly got a little heated during the evening commute.

"I'm gonna kill you, you fat honky bastard!"

This was the driver in the car to my right. At least, I think that's what he said. It was a little hard to tell, as the windows on my Hummer were rolled up, both the AC and the AC/DC were at full blast, and we were doing 80 down the highway. Plus, he was waving a gun at me.

So I slammed on my breaks. And just in the nick of time, as it turned out. The madman fired wildly, putting six beer can-sized holes through a Cutlass Supreme in the lane to my left. Unfortunately, the old lady behind the wheel was killed instantly. Don't expect me to feel too bad though. She was 87, which meant she'd already been soaking up social security for damn near a quarter-century.

The good news is, that guy's going away for a long time. And to think it all started 'cause I flicked him off for driving too slow. What did he expect? If you don't want the bird, don't drive like an asshole.

I Love Me Some Secretaries

Maybe you didn't know it, but today is National Secretary Day. So hugs and kisses to all you hot tomato secretaries out there. Sure, they call it "National Administrative Professionals Day" these days, but where I come from we call a spade a spade. Besides, if I didn't just pay you money for a rim job, you're no pro in my book.

So what did I do for my secretary? Same thing I do every year: gave her a dozen roses, a pinch on the ass, and a coupon for one free naked massage from yours truly. What can I say? I'm a classy guy. Especially when it comes to broads.

That's A Lot Of Pudding

Here's how it went down. I was using my new ZoomMaster 9000 telescope this morning. You know, taking the lay of the land. It's one of those big jobs, about the size of an oil drum with a lens that could burn a hole right through you if you were dumb enough to put it between you and the sun. Serious business, just like everything I do.

Anyway, I decided to take a peek at my neighbor's bathroom, and was lucky enough to catch Bob Laudermilk's wife, Ivette, as she was coming out of the shower. Talk about a goldmine. And by goldmine, I mean two very succulent hooters. I wouldn't mind burying my face in those beauties for an hour or so, that's for sure.

Better still, Bob works for me. Which means finagling some "quality time" with Ivette shouldn't be a problem. At least it better not, not if Bob still wants that promotion. And weasely little men like him always want a promotion.