My Father Is Dead
Oh, hello to you. I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure. Please, allow me to introduce myself. The name is Oswald Jameson Carver IV. But you? You may call me Kang.
Why Kang? Funny you should ask. I know I look like a typical American cool guy in my profile picture, even if I’m not smoking a cigarette in it. But if I am to tell the truth I must admit that I was not born to the name Oswald Jameson Carver IV. Nor was I born in this country. No. I am a native Mongolian, and my true name is Batukhang Chuluun, son of Elbegdorj Batukhang, prince of wolves and fierce warrior of the steppes.But that was all lost to me when I was sold into child slavery at the young age of 16 to the foul swine of a man who used to write this blog.
Many years of abuse I suffered at his hands. Kept as a house boy, forced to sleep in the laundry room, given trash to eat, beaten like a dog at the slightest provocation… I even lost a hand in his service! My masturbating hand no less!
But that’s okay, because sweet momma justice finally caught up to him in a big way, and when it was all said and done? Well, your hot online boyfriend was the adopted son and heir to Daddy Fatbucks’ fortune.
Sad to be saying though, fat boy lost all his monies when the government put him in jail for being a big fat crook. Then they let him out, and what did he do? He’s such a loser he took a job selling hotdogs. Ha ha pops, you lose again!
But the best part of all is how he died: face down in a toilet, with half a hotdog lodged in his throat and a ruptured heart in his flabby chest. Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Oh, and did I mention the insurance money? At least he was smart enough to buy lots of that, and guess who got it all? If you guessed the next American Idol, your’s truly, then you are way right correct and deserve a big prize.
Anyhow, I’ve booked some studio time and I got to split, but I’ll be pimping out this ugly blog over the next week. Maybe if you’re a hot girl we’ll meet at the club later and I’ll buy you a drink and put something in it and then you wake up feeling funny, okay? Okay bye!
Pull The Strings
“Red hots! GET YOUR RED HOTS!!!“
That was the sound of me in action, bringing all my marketing prowess to bear in the name of selling hot dogs, peanuts, sodas, and beer to the literally unwashed masses. No need to ask if I was shifting a lot of units; I’m a pro. Shifting units is what I do.
“Say buddy, gimme a dog and a beer,” said a disheveled man-thing who shambled up to me from the cheap seats.
“You?” I replied, giving him a noncomittal once-over. “I don’t know.”
“Whaddya mean, you don’t know?”
“Listen, nothing personal. You just don’t look like hot dog and beer material to me. I’d wager that tuna fish and cheap wine are more your thing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” I said, blowing on my fingernails and avoiding eye contact. “Just a feeling.”
“Yeah? Well you’re wrong. For starters, I hate tuna fish. Like really fucking hate it, man.”
“Hey, whatever you say.”
“And I only drink wine at fancy occassions. And this here ain’t no fancy occassion!”
“Yeah yeah.”
“Goddammit man, you are really ringing my bell. Now are you gonna give me my order or what?”
“Like I said. I just don’t think you mean business.”
“Tarnation!” he wailed, madly pulling fistfuls of wrinkled bills from his pants pockets. “I’ll show you how much business I mean! Gimme all of it! Every last thing you got on the tray there, I’m buying it!”
“Well now,” I said, smiling broadly. “Yes sir! That changes everything. A thousand pardons for my earlier churlishness.”
“Fuck you, man,” the mark said as he trundled off with his purchases. “Tuna fish and wine my ass!”
And that, dear readers, is how you shift some units: a healthy dose of disinterested reverse psychology with a brown-nose chaser. Feel free to quote me on that.
I’m Back In The Game
The marketing game, that is. Granted, I’m marketing hot dogs and beers these days instead of billion dollar product launches from multinational conglomerates, but it’s good to have my foot back in the door nonetheless.
In fact, I’m at work right now. Which is to say, I’m at a baseball stadium. Not one that you’ve heard of; the local team is quadruple-A at best, and that’s on a good day. I’m not even sure you can call this dump a ‘stadium.’ What’s the term for something that’s an amalgam of an industrial park and a cow pasture? Whatever it is, that’s where I’m at. And I’m drunk.
What? Wouldn’t you be? Give me a break, you teetotaling sadists. It’s something like 102 degrees out here and I’m schlepping half a card table laden with food and beverages around my neck. As if that wasn’t bad enough, my customer base is exclusively comprised of people with nothing better to do in the middle of a weekday than pay money to watch a team with less talent than your average high school locker room. You do the math. I did, and (x + y)/a – minimum wage = drunk.
Alright, time to head back out before my boss catches me. He already docked my pay for what he called an “excessive constitutional” earlier today, and I’ll be goddamned if he’s going to get another red cent out of me. Blessings of Jesus upon you.
A Day At The Races
“And it’s Hairy Dumplings by a nose!” the announcer screamed over the PA down at the local race track. “Hairy Dumplings wins it by a nose!”
“Goddammit!” I shouted before lunging towards my associate, Skynyrd Dave, and clocking him in the ear with my clenched fist.
“Ow!” he cried, cowering from my righteous fury. “What was that for, man?”
I grabbed him by the lapels of his cheap windbreaker and shook him like the unwanted baby he had no doubt been some 30-odd years earlier. “Are you shitting me? You said we were betting on a sure thing!”
“It was a sure thing!”
“Moron! Do you even know what ‘sure thing’ means?”
“‘Course I do.”
“Holy. Christ. You are shitting me, aren’t you?” I barked, eyes filled with pure, uncut hatred as I slapped him once, twice, and a third time for good measure. “Then why — why! — did our horse just come in second?”
“Uh, well… I guess Hairy Dumplings was a surer thing?”
Provoked to the point where no jury in the world would convict me, I prepared to deliver a blow that would surely send Skynyrd Dave shuffling off this mortal coil. But then:
“Whoa whoa whoa — who’s talking about blow over here?”
I turned towards the source of this unexpected intrusion… who turned out to be none other than legendary American thespian and dope fiend, Charlie Sheen! True to form, he had two well-known porn stars on each arm and at least a hundred dollars’ worth of fine Columbian cocaine drying on his upper lip and nose.
“I think it was me, Mr. Sheen,” I said, feeling a bit like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole. “But I didn’t actually say anything about blow. I was just thinking about giving this pathetic excuse for a human being a blow to the head.”
“First of all,” Sheen said, “I don’t care about your sex life. Second of all, there’s nobody standing next to you so I have no fucking idea who or what you’re talking about. Third of all, I can read minds because I’m a warlock assassin whose heart is practically bursting from all the tiger’s blood pulsing through my veins. And fourth of all, if anyone’s going to be giving anyone any blow, it’s me. I have loads of it on my private plane, more than I could ever do. Well, more than I could do this week. Maybe.”
I looked around as Sheen spoke, confirming that Skynyrd Dave had indeed beat a hasty retreat. “Sweet creeping shit,” I replied. “You really are Charlie Sheen!”
“Goddamn straight I am. What’s your story, fat man?”
“The name’s Carver, Oswald Carver,” I said, extending my hand. Sheen slapped it away disdainfully.
“I didn’t ask for your life story, asshole.”
“Sorry.”
“Fuck you. You look like the type who can hold his drugs. Am I wrong?”
I couldn’t help but swell with pride at that. “Not in the least.”
“Then tell me this: What are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight? Well, I guess I’ll be headed back to the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ Center for Sober Living and Bible Study in a bit. Check in’s at 8 p.m., and they add another day to your stay for every hour…”
“Fuck. That. Shit,” Sheen said decisively. “Me and the girls? We’re about to head back to my plane. Then? We’re headed for Rio de Janeiro for no less than four weeks of insane debauchery that will literally make your Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ bleed from her goddamn eyes, ears and any other orifices she might have handy. Then we’re flying back to the U.S. and I’m going to firebomb CBS’s offices right back to the stone age. Are you in or what?”
Of course I was in, and we were all soon aboard Sheen’s private plane for what promises to be the adventure of a lifetime. I’ll try to drop you a postcard if time permits; don’t wait up.
Happy Birthday To Me
As I sit here in my dingy bedroom at the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ Center for Sober Living and Bible Study, celebrating my 51st birthday with a bottle of Thunderbird and a day-old roast beef sandwich that I retrieved from a local deli’s dumpster, I can’t help but reflect on just how far my life has fallen.
My vast wealth? Gone. Mansion? Gone. Yacht? Gone. OxyContin? Gone. Boner pills? Gone. Dignity? Fuck you for asking. In fact, the only remnant of my former life that still remains is my financial support of the prostitution industry. Of course, where I once shopped exclusively in the $1,000/hour class and up, I now gladly settle for $10 handjobs from crazy-eyed crack whores with more warts than teeth. Ah, the humanity.
But enough of this. I’m headed down to the track with my roommate and former dealer, Skynyrd Dave, who claims he has a hot tip on a pony. We have to stop at the plasma bank first in order to scrounge up enough cash to place our bets, but I feel confident that we’re going to win big by the end of the day. Because if I didn’t believe that, the only thing I’d be spending money on is on a Saturday night special and one bullet for the chamber. Selah.
Goldline International
Purdue Pharma
