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.

“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.

Next thing I knew, however, the water around me had taken on a decidedly brownish tinge and the call girls were swimming away from me as quickly as possible. The reason? I had crapped my Speedo.

Not the end of the world, I suppose. My butler, Montgomery, took care of the immediate cleanup duties, and I’ll have the pool drained and disinfected on Monday. And it’s not as if I care what hookers think. After all, I pay them for sex. How much lower could their opinion of me be?

Speaking of which, time for me to motor. I’ve moved the party up to the hot tub, and my second dose of Viagra for the evening is really starting to kick in. Catch you on the flip side.

I had lunch at my favorite Mexican eatery, El Bolas del Toro, around 1:00 p.m. today and consumed my usual “5-and-5″ — five overstuffed burritos and five extra salted margaritas — then returned to work. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

My post-Mexican afternoon constitutional also proceeded as normal. By which I mean, about 10 straight minutes of high pressure, completely liquified diarrhea. But a large, solid object flew out during the finale, which struck me as odd. So odd, in fact, that I decided to get off the toilet seat and peek down. You know what I saw? A completely untouched burrito floating amongst the chocolatey morass.

Given the extreme singularity of this event, I opted against flushing so that other Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs employees could share in my amazement. I suppose I should take it as a lesson to slow down and chew my food more thoroughly, but crapping out an entire burrito was actually kind of awesome. I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop if it happens again.

“Psst, boss. Hey boss.“

“What?” I said. “Who’s there?” I recognized the voice, of course; it belonged to my idiot vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting that.

“It’s me — Sherm.“

“Sherm who?”

“Sherm Schweinbumser. Your VP?“

“Oh,” I said. “You. What have I told you about talking to me in the men’s room, Schweinbumser?”

“Uh… not to do it?“

“Exactly. And yet here we are.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… well, I have a problem.“

“I’ll say you do. For one, you’re talking to me in the restroom. Secondly, you sound awful.”

“Oh, that. I’m whispering.“

“Why?”

“So I don’t attract attention.“

“Jesus Christ, man. You weren’t making any sense to begin with and it’s been all downhill from there. Cut to the chase already.”

“I–“

“And stop whispering!”

“Alright,” he said. “I… I sort of have my arm stuck in the toilet.”

This was a new low even for Schweinbumser, and it stunned me into silence for several seconds. Finally, I said: ”Come again?”

“My arm. It’s stuck in the toilet.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but. Why?”

He moaned softly. “My wedding ring… it slipped off my finger. I was trying to get it back.”

“How did it slip off your finger?”

“I was, uh. I was wiping.”

“Dear god. You mean?”

“Yeah.”

Having finished my business, I rose, flushed, and zipped up my pants.

“Schweinbumser, that is without a doubt the most disgusting story I’ve heard in ages. And I hear plenty of disgusting stories in the circles in which I travel. Hell, I’m responsible for most of them. Frankly, I have half a mind to fire you.”

“Oh, geez. Please don’t do that. I’m going to be in enough trouble as it is, what with losing my ring.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, do you have your cellphone on you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, call maintenance. Removing employees’ arms from crap-filled toilets isn’t in my job description, and I have a lot of work to do this afternoon. Ta ta.”

That Schweinbumser. Good thing he’s willing to work so hard for so little pay or he would’ve been out on the street ages ago. Anyhow, I have to split; Miss Cashtushy is wearing a preposterously tight outfit today, and I need to think up some reason for her to do a lot of bending and stretching in my office. Wish me luck.

“Montgomery!” I shouted. “Mont-gom-er-y!“

He materialized as if from nowhere. “Pip-pip, Master Carver. ‘Ow wuz it down at the coffee ‘n’ perk?”

“The what?”

“Oh, I say. Just a bit of Brit rhyming there — coffee ‘n’ perk, meaning ‘work?’ Wot wot.”

I stared at him blankly. “Montgomery, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that everything you know about the British language comes from watching television. That bit about the rhyming, for example. I know I saw that on The Jeffersons once.”

“Yes, well, we can only speak as the Creator sees fit, guv’nor. Now then, wot can I do for… oh, I say.”

“What now?”

“Did you happen to step in a bit of shine ‘n’ spit?”

“What?”

“Er, that is — dog shit?”

“No. But that’s why I need you. I crapped my pants on the way home. Again.”

“Wot wot! Well, that won’t do at all. You just slip out of those filthy trousers and scamper on up to a hot bath. I’ll have a pitcher of Old Fashioneds to you before you can say ‘Ol’ Queen Liz,’ ay?”

“Sounds good,” I said as I removed my pants and draped them over Montgomery’s outstretched arm. “Oh, and one more thing?”

“Yes, guv’nor?”

“My new Escalade — I’m pretty sure I left some king-sized skidmarks on the driver’s seat. Be sure and get those out before anything soaks in.”

“Sure and betweedle, Master Carver. Don’t you worry about a thing. Ol’ Montgomery’ll take care of it lickety split, or my name’s not Montgomery.”

I may not be able to understand half of the gibberish that comes out of his mouth, but I have to admit that Monty’s a hell of a butler. Anyhow, time for me to hop in the tub. Feel free to join me if you’re attractive and in the area, ladies.

Anyhow, nothing but new stuff from here on out. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Ex-Lax I took this morning to counteract the constipating side effects of yesterday’s Oxy binge has kicked in, and there’s a heated toilet seat with my corpulent ass’s name on it. Toot toot.

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.

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 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.