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 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.
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.
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.
So I went golfing today. Not the best weather for it -- overcast and drizzly throughout -- but nothing a rough customer like myself couldn't handle. Old people, however, are another matter.
Take the geezers who were playing ahead of my foursome, which included three very powerful Japanese businessmen. The old timers were slow as molasses, and brushed off all requests to play through.
"Cool your jets, sonny," said one, waving his 3-iron menacingly. "Goddamn kids today ain't got no patience!"
"You tell 'im, Harry," said another. "We didn't win dubya-dubya-two just to be talked down to by some Jap-loving tub of lard! Shove off, bozo!"
"Jesus," I muttered, then turned to the Japanese. "Listen Miyagis, you guys know kung fu, right? Why don't you bust it out and chase these old bastards out of here? I'm tired of waiting."
Well, for reasons I don't understand the Japanese guys took real offense to that, and were on a plane back to Tokyo within an hour. Which further meant I lost a lucrative contract. All 'cause those bluehairs wouldn't let us play through. Christ, I hate old people.
I'll be honest with you. Outside of yesterday's ill-fated visit to Madame Ching's, I haven't left my palatial home in three days. You know, what with recovering from the gallstone operation and all.
So anyways, I ripped off a monstrous fart after dinner. Nothing unusual there. Except it made the room smell better. That's when I remembered I hadn't bathed since the last sponge bath at the hospital. And when you're as fat as I am, you can work up a sweat lying prone in an air-conditioned room. Trust me. Add it all up, and you've got a house full of stench that a whole team of Honduran cleaning women may not be able to get out.
Well, they'd better. Or there'll be hell to pay. You can trust me on that, too.
Guess who just got a new iPod? That's right, me. Which means I'm never interacting with the larger world again.
I wasn't sure how much memory I'd need, so I went for broke with the 60 gigabyte "Black Beauty" with video capabilities. Imagine my surprise when the 125 songs or so that I listen to barely made a dent. Oh well. Guess this means I'll be walking around with a lot of porn videos in my pocket. You have been warned.
More like Daylight Bullshit Time if you ask me. This whole scam would actually make sense if they did it in winter, so it wouldn't be pitch black by 4:45 in the afternoon. No. They have to do it during summer, so we can all enjoy blinding daylight until nearly 10 o'clock at night. Thanks again, Congress.
The fact is, D.S.T. is just institutionalized chicanery designed to make us shop longer and drive more during the temperate summer months. Who profits? Big oil and city businessmen, of course. Look it up online if you're so inclined. I'd provide some links but I can't be bothered; I've got watermelon to eat and Slip 'n' Slides to master.
Bank on it. 'Cause in less than 15 minutes, I'll be taking Jeopardy!'s "Online Contestant Test."
I just hope I make it to the "Showcase Showdown" once I qualify. I wouldn't mind getting an up-close look at those knockers on Barker's Beauties, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean I want to ogle their tits. A-oo-gah.
----------
UPDATE: Looks like I had my game shows mixed up. Apparently they just ask you a lot of hard questions on Jeapordy!, without any boobies in sight. Much less any exciting prize packages. They can go to hell.
Say, when is Redd Foxx going to do another season of Sanford & Son? I just started catching the reruns on cable, and that shit is out of sight! Hopefully Redd will stop being crazy and work things out with Comedy Central so we can all get back to the funny.
I'll tell you what's not funny on Comedy Central, though: that new Daily Show reporter, Dan "The Hack" Bakkedahl. His jokes are stale, he's physically repulsive, and his complete and utter baldness makes me look like Fabio by comparison. Bakkedahl, feh. He's no Redd Foxx, that's for sure. Or is that Cedric the Entertainer I'm thinking of?
It's true, I'm not. Intrigued yet, ladies? You should be. I'm talking about 350 pounds of love meat poured into a leopard skin speedo, waiting to give you pleasure unlike any you've ever imagined.
Tell me you're not getting hot and I'll call you a goddamn liar. Drop the charade, your inhibitions, and your pants; we're on a collision course with amore. Toot toot!
I won't lie to you; I would normally be at work right now. But I took today off. Mind you, I didn't call out "sick." I don't abide that kind of un-American behavior. No, I put in for this day over a month ago, well within my company's vacation guidelines.
I was going to do a lot today. You know, run those millions of little bullshit errands that just can't be done on a weekend. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I took the biggest shit of my life not five minutes after waking up. It was majestic, an epic act of personal cleansing and renewal unlike anything I'd experienced before. In fact, a number of feces-centric cultures are already creating songs, paintings and other works of art in my bowel movement's honor. It was that good.
That said, the whole ordeal left me with such a sense of accomplishment that I can't be bothered to do anything else today. If you need me, I'll be taking in a marathon Playboy TV session from the comfort of my vibrating chair. Ta-ta.
At least, the equivalent of one. Picture it, if you will: a four-pound N.Y. strip steak marinated in garlic and whiskey, seared to a perfect medium rare. It was served with a fully loaded baked potato, a half cup of horseradish and an entire loaf of buttered bread. Moreover, it was preceded by a caesar salad and topped off with cherries jubilee, a glass of brandy and a fine cigar.
But enough of that. Time for me to lay on my stomach for the next hour or so, then go find a whore who doesn't mind a bit of the rough stuff. Cheers.
Heh. Heh heh.
That's three nights in a row I've crapped in my neighbor's lawn.
Me
+
Saturday Night
+
5 Vietnamese Whores
=
A very relaxed Sunday morning. As soon as I get all these whores out of here, that is.
