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.

Huh, I'd Forgotten All About This Blog

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.

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.

Sorry, I'm Still Kind Of Busy

Busy doing what? None of your goddamn business, thank you very much. What's more, I'm looking to be busy for about another week and a half, and I don't want to hear any crying about it.

In the meantime, here's a joke to tide you over: Women's Lib. Ha! Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!

Smell you later, alligators.

Goddamn That's Some Good Malt Liquor

Hey. How's it hanging? Not much on my end; just sitting here enjoying an ice-cold can of Colt 45. That's right, Colt 45. Sure, it's a poor person's drink. Even a homeless person's drink, when you get right down to it. So what? It works every time. That's all I care about.

Oh, and sorry for not writing much this week. Not that sorry, though. Hell, you people don't expect me to provide you with free entertainment every goddamn day of the week, do you? If so, you're crazy.

As for me, I'm off to get so drunk I crap my pants. Then I'm gonna enjoy a big dinner, and maybe drink some more after that. See you later.