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.

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.

My Eyes Are Bleeding

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.

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.

Grow Up Already

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.

Oh Christ

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.

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?

Battlestar Galactica Could Be A Lot Better

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.

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?

The Guys At The Office Are Gonna Love This

Yeah, so, I hear you've been looking for me. Too bad -- I've been busy. Busy with business, dammit, and make no mistake: the business of Oswald Carver is most assuredly business. And business is good.

Unfortunately, good business inevitably comes hand in hand with a strained labor force. Which is why I decided to splurge and buy a motivational poster for the office. You know, one of those slickly produced signs with a tranquil image and some sage words underneath, all set around a central theme: Perserverance, Endurance, Stubbornness and the like.

At any rate, here's the one my staff will be enjoying come tomorrow; "click for a larger version," as they say. Also, if you're interested in getting one for your own office, might I recommend this site? Their custom craftsmanship is unparalleled -- tell 'em Oz sent you.

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.

Sometimes 'Sorry' Just Doesn't Cut It

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.

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!

So I'm Back

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.

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.