Quick Updates
In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re thick in the dog days of summer. Which means it’s a great time of year for me to relax poolside in a Speedo, frolic on my private yacht, and eat enough charred animal flesh to nourish an entire third world country. Not to mention alcohol, OxyContin, whores, and earning obscene amounts of money. But make regular blog posts? Eh. Not so much.
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.
America The Beautiful
If you’re a foreigner, chances are you’re going to spend today eating fish & rice, smoking low-grade cigarettes, paying outrageous taxes, and watching and/or playing soccer. Because that’s how you roll. Meanwhile, here in America, we’ll be enjoying grilled meat, fast cars, obnoxiously large breasts, and explosions of varying degrees, all while consuming approximately 25% of the world’s resources despite having less than 5% of the population.
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.
Soccer Is The Worst Thing In The World
Has it really been a week since my last post? Well, so much for regular updates, eh? Not that I care. I’m disgustingly wealthy and sleep with a different prostitute — or more — every night. Furthermore, I live in a mansion, own a yacht, have a fleet of high-end luxury vehicles to cart my corpulent ass around, and a veritable army of indigent foreigners sees to my every need. In light of these facts, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that entertaining you is absolutely the lowest carved Indian face on my personal totem pole.
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.
Has The Whole World Gone Insane?
“Disgusting. Just disgusting,” I said to no one in particular while perusing the local newspaper after work tonight.
“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.
I’m Considering Adult Film Production
Hi there. Come on in. You’re looking particularly good this evening. So good, in fact, that I have to ask:
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.
Goldline International
Purdue Pharma
