That is all.

“Wot wot?” Montgomery replied, sticking his head out from the pantry. “An Asian lad? You mean Kang?”

“Who?”

“Kang, guv’nor.”

“Who?”

“Your adopted son?”

“Oh, right. That Kang. Never mind then.”

“Cheerio, m’lord. And d’ye be wanting beef, chicken or fish for tonight’s repast?”

“All three,” I said. “See if you can find someway to merge them together.”

“Pardon?”

“You know. Like a turducken.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You there!” I said, walking back into the dining room. “What’s the meaning of impregnating one of the maids before galavanting off to summer camp?”

“Screw you Mister Father,” Kang hissed, flicking cigarette ash in my general direction. “Me teenage boy. Me get boners all the time. World owes me some place to put them.”

I harrumphed, but it was difficult to argue with his line of reasoning. “Be that as it may, the abortion cost $100. It will, of course, be deducted from your allowance.”

“Whatever, tubby belly man.”

“Tubby belly man?! That tears it! You go to your room this instant!”

“Good,” he said, gathering his comics and rising. “Me tired of hearing your voice anyhow.”

“Well I’m tired of you hearing it too! Now get out of here. And keep your genitals out of my maids, you freeloader!”

So it goes. Kids, eh? Oh well, that one will be 18 in a year and a half, at which point he’ll promptly find himself waiting in whatever sort of line it is that indigent foreigners wait in. As for me, I’m off to the Emporium to have my way with a hired sex partner or three. I ate a lot of Mexican today and my bowels are already feeling quite quivery, so some lucky young woman may very well receive a classic Cleveland Steamer in the near future. In fact, I would bank on it. Good night.

“What, this?” I said, referring to the nearly 2-foot-long slimy white thing cupped in my left hand. “Straight out of my nose. Pretty cool, eh?”

“Good lord,” he said. “You do know that’s a tapeworm, right?”

“What?” I said.

“A tapeworm. Wot wot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, quite positive. I saw loads of them during the Falklands campaign. Usually coming out of the natives’ anuses, however. Never heard of one coming out of a nose before. Pip pip.”

“Jesus.”

“Indeed.”

With that, I hightailed it over to Doc Steinbrau’s offices, where I was given a battery of tests and medicines. Hopefully he’ll call soon with an update. A man in my position certainly can’t have tapeworms dropping out of his nose during business meetings, after all. Wish me luck.

The door to my office flew open, and my personal secretary entered. “Yes, Mr. Carver? What can I… Mother of God what is that stench?!?”

“Hmm?” I said, staring openly at her heaving bosom. “Oh, that’s probably me. I work up quite a sweat coming back from lunch during these summer months. It’s hot as balls out there right now, you know.”

“No, that’s not B.O.,” she insisted, eyes wide with what might have actually been fear. “That’s…”

“Yes?”

“Did you..?”

“Did I what?”

“Um.”

“Confound it, Cashtushy!” I said, pounding my fist on the desk. “Out with it!”

“Did you have… an accident?” she asked, blushing fiercely.

“What kind of accident? A car accident?”

“Geez,” she scowled. “No. The other kind.”

“Unexpected pregnancy?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You know.”

“No I don’t.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Yes?”

“Did you mess your pants?”

I smiled broadly.

“Indeed I did, my dear. That’s actually why I called you in here — I’m going to need some cleaning supplies. And something to wrap myself in for the ride home. Maybe a tablecloth from the break room? Anyhow, please make this your top priority. That will be all.”

She left immediately, but that was an hour ago and I’ve begun to suspect that she has no plans to return. Oh well. As my father often said, “A man who relies on a woman is a goddamn moron.” So if she still isn’t back by 5, I’ll turn my drapes into a makeshift toga and head home. Certainly won’t be the first time, nor will it be the last.

What can I say? I’m a busy man who works hard and plays hard. And is in fact currently hard thanks to the wonder of modern boner pills. But in the interest of keeping my fans apprised of my envy-inducing lifestyle, I’ve decided to supply you with a few choice updates:

• Quarterly reviews went smashingly down at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, and I earned a $2.7M bonus as a result. Furthermore, I called every former employee whom I fired to get that bonus just to let them know how much I’d netted from their misfortune. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much I enjoyed that.
• I’ve packed my adopted son, Kang, off to camp for the summer. Not a moment too soon, either, as it turns out that he recently impregnated one of my maids. Oh well. Boys will be boys.
• Last Thursday, I made a bowel movement so large that it actually shattered a toilet at work. Bombs away, indeed!
• I may or may not have killed another hooker. Please direct all inquiries to my legal team.

Well, I guess that’s it for now — I took the day off from work to do prescription drugs and have paid sex with trashy women, and updating this blog doesn’t qualify as either. Until next time, keep working hard for The Man.

Why? Because we rule, that’s why. Q.E.D.

Oh, and in case you didn’t know? Today’s our national Independence Day. So the Kim Jong-ils and Mahmoud Ahmadinejads of the world would do well to avoid making any trouble, lest they want a billion megatons or so of high-grade death dropped on their pointy little heads. Hoo-rah.

As to yours truly, I’ll be out on my yacht, the Donkey Punch II, with an Asian whore, a Middle Eastern whore, an African whore, a European whore, a Mexican whore and, most assuredly, a Native American whore, subjecting them to all sorts of cruel and unusual sexcapades while dining on the charred meat of several endangered species. In short: there will be blood. Toot toot.

But I digress. Turns out that my vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser, is staying true to form when it comes to aping the behavioral patterns of all the other idiots in this country. By which I mean, he’s deep in the throes of World Cup fever. I discovered this yesterday afternoon when I had the misfortune of passing him in the hall at work.

“How about that big win, boss?” he said, a moronic grin plastered all over his insipid face. “USA forever, am I right?”

“What win?” I demanded. “Did something finally happen to Obama?”

“What?” he said. “No. Geez, what a horrible thing to even think.”

“Oh, get over it,” I said. “And cut to the chase. I’m a busy man, and certainly don’t have the time to stand here lollygagging with the likes of you.”

“I’m talking about our big win over Algeria!”

“We’re at war with Algeria? When did that happen?”

“No — in the World Cup. What an exciting match!”

“Sainted mother of Nixon,” I sighed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Schweinbumser, I’m neither 12-years-old, foreign, nor retarded, and therefore have less interest in soccer than I have in voting Democrat.”

“But it’s the World Cup! It only comes around every four years!”

“Yes, well, so do the Olympics, and you won’t catch me watching that snoozefest either.”

“Well, gosh. What do you like?”

“Whores. And OxyContin. Alcohol and food are good, too. Beyond that? Not much.”

“Oh, okay. I guess you don’t want the souvenir vuvuzela I ordered for you either, huh?”

“Vuvu-what-a?”

“Vuvuzela. You know, the horn that fans are blowing at the matches?”

“Not only do I not want it, Schweinbumser, but you can take your vuvuzela and shove it up your–”

At that moment, my company’s HR director, Harry Fagina, materialized as if from nowhere, a disapproving look on his face.

“Jesus!” I said to Fagina. “Where did you come from?”

“A meeting with Miss Cashtushy, that’s where,” Fagina said. “If you don’t mind, we need to touch base regarding our sexual harassment policy again.”

“Not now,” I said. “The Krakenburger presentation is later today, and I have a lot to do before then. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Fine,” Fagina said, tapping something into his Blackberry. “How about 11 a.m.? Or is that too early for you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’ll see you then.”

I decided to call it a day after that harrowing exchange, and hightailed it down to Boobs-a-Poppin’ in hopes of enjoying some world-class tits, only to find that my favorite strip club had also succumbed to this blasted World Cup nonsense. Oh well. The damn thing started two weeks ago, so it can’t be too long before it’s all over, right? In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just have to drown my sorrows in the STD-tested arms of the call girls at Pete’s Poontang Emporium. Until next time: ta-ta.

“What is, sir?” asked my butler, Montgomery, who was standing nearby with a tray of Old Fashioneds at the ready. “The war perhaps? Or the economy? Not the environment, surely. Wot wot?”

“Hmm?” I said, looking up. “What have I told you about speaking when you’re spoken to, Monty?”

“Right-o,” he said. “Cheerio.”

“But seeing as you’re already broken the seal: it’s Harrison Ford. The idiot went and got himself married yesterday. Married for the second time, no less!”

“My word,” said Montgomery.

“Exactly. It’s like reading about someone who previously escaped a fiery death in the heart of a volcano, only to voluntarily re-enter another active volcano at a later date. Madness!”

“Indeed, sir.”

“What about you, Monty? You ever make the Bachelor’s Mistake?”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“Good man,” I said, raising my glass to him.

“Well, it’s not that I’m opposed to it,” he said by way of explanation. “It’s just that I’m as gay as the day is long, and marriage is generally frowned upon for my lot.”

“Oh, that’s… Wait. What?”

“What? Wot wot?”

“Er. Never mind. Look, why don’t you leave the tray of Old Fashioneds and take the night off?”

“Right-o, governor! Pip pip!”

With that, Montgomery was gone. Presumably to enjoy a few hours at a naked dance club or whatever it is that gay men like him do to unwind. Oh well. I hope you all will look at his continued service to me as proof positive that I don’t have a discriminatory bone in my body.

Anyhow, you’ll have to excuse me — I had Mexican for lunch and now I need to drop a deuce the size of an Oldsmobile. Don’t wait up.

Have you ever considered a career in amateur porn?

Oh come now, don’t look so offended. It’s a legitimate question. You certainly have the looks for it. Just between you and me? I think you’re beautiful by any standards, not just “porn pretty.” Which means you’ll go further than most should you decide to pursue this lucrative opportunity, FYI.

Once you’re done being so huffy, you’ll probably start to wonder why I’m asking. Well, it’s a little sideline I’m considering. I was sitting there, just yesterday, vigorously enjoying some filthy cinema involving a woman and two rainbow-wigged clowns, when it struck me: as rich as I am, I could be getting even richer by financing a series of adult films!

Turns out that it’s even easier than I’d hoped to start up an adult business. My attorneys cleared the paperwork today, and all that’s left to do is acquire some film equipment and a bevy of female stars. Beyond that, my overhead will be practically non-existant; I’ll be shooting at my mansion, and will personally direct each feature and provide the “male talent.” It’s a veritable license to print money.

What’s that? You must be off? Understandable. But please, take my card before you go. I know you say that such work is beneath you now, but give this economy another year or two and I’m sure you’ll be back. See you then.