Oz's Funhouse » Breasts

I Can See God

Oswald Carver — Tue, 18 May 2010 17:23:05 +0000

And he has a fantastic pair of tits. Now it all makes sense…

Yes, I think you’re right — it is time for another OxyContin. Ask for it by name.

Charles Tandy Was A Great American

Oswald Carver — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 13:16:14 +0000

For reasons I can’t really explain, I was perusing the May 2010 issue of Wired while taking my morning constitutional. It’s a dreadful little magazine, normally full of useless information that only the nerdiest of nerds could care about. But it did contain a somewhat interesting article about the history of the RadioShack line, including some details on former chairman Charles Tandy.

Of particular note was this snippet:

[H]e kept a plastic breast on his desk that made a gong sound when he pressed the nipple. It was how he called for more coffee.

Needless to say, I’ve directed my fill-in personal secretary, Miss Sugarteats, to order me a gross of these fantastic devices; two for my desk at work, and the rest to give out as gifts to friends and business partners. I can’t wait for my regular secretary, Miss Cashtushy, to get a double-dose of the coffee gong upon her return.

And Charles Tandy? I salute you.

Somebody Call The Guinness People

Oswald Carver — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 03:55:21 +0000

This is Captain Oswald J. Carver III, coming to you live from the bridge of the S.S. Hot Tub of Love. And I’m pleased to report that there are currently twenty naked call girls stuffed in here with me.

Is it a new record? Who cares. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some serious motorboating to do. Toot toot, me hearties. Toot toot.

What? It’s Mardi Gras

Oswald Carver — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 23:05:57 +0000

So apparently the housewives in my neighborhood have no love for the traditions of New Orleans. I stood in front of my local Piggly Wiggly all afternoon with a box full of cheap plastic beads, and all I have to show for it is a black eye, a torn suit, and a citation for lewd and lascivious conduct. But nary a peek at even a single naked boob.

Not that I can blame them: New Orleans is, after all, a disgusting den of iniquity, and I usually ignore everything that comes out of it. Still, even a broken calendar can be right once a year.

Wait. Dammit. I should’ve gone to the community college. If there’s one thing drunken young sluts are known for doing, it’s showing strange men their tits. Oh well. I’ll keep it in mind for next year.

Battlestar Galactica Could Be A Lot Better

Oswald Carver — Sat, 14 Oct 2006 04:18:15 +0000

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.

My VP Can’t Hold His Liquor

Oswald Carver — Sat, 10 Jun 2006 01:42:29 +0000

That’s the last time I go drinking with my idiot VP, Sherm Schweinbumser. It was his birthday, so I decided to take him to the local Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club for an extended liquid lunch. Dutch treat, of course. Little did I know that Schweinbumser’s a lightweight when it comes to drinking; he was already three sheets to the wind before I’d even hung one out to dry.

“Sweet Jesus, man!” I said, grabbing him by the suspenders as he lolled around listlessly in his stool. “You’ve gotta get a hold of yourself. You can’t go back to work in this condition!”

“The hell I–hiccup!–can’t!” he said, squinting viciously at no one in particular. “I’sh sho drunk, I’m gonna–hiccup!–tell the boss right off when I’sh–hiccup!–getsh back.”

“I am the boss, you moron.”

“Shit, you’re right. Hiccup! Shay… you’re a great bossh, Oz,” he said, leaning in as if to hug me. I recoiled in disgust, slapping his arms away.

“Get the hell off me, Schweinbumser!”

“But I love you, man!”

“Love me? What’s wrong with you? It’s like you’ve never had alcohol before!”

“Not schince–hiccup!–college,” he confessed, eyes darting about furtively. “My wife… she don’t–hiccup!–like me drinking.”

“What? Your wife?! Goddammit! It makes me sick just hearing such nonsense. My advice to you is to leave her, and quick. Don’t waste another minute with that shrew!”

“Mmm, I don’t–hiccup!–know, Oz. I really love — holy shit, that lady’s naked!”

Yes, it took Schweinbumser twenty minutes to realize we were in a titty bar, but he got a lot calmer once he did. What can I say. I like my underlings stupid, so I don’t have to fear them usurping me. Still, what an ordeal. I thought I was taking a man out for a drink, not a weepy female bookstore clerk. And to think that he’s raising two sons. The horror!

Who Doesn’t Like Hooters?

Oswald Carver — Thu, 09 Mar 2006 00:42:34 +0000

Not me, that’s for sure. And I’m not talking about the low-rent restaurant chain with the tackily dressed call girls working as waitresses; I’m talking about nice, round, fleshy boobs. Hurray!

Show me a person who says they don’t love boobies, and I’ll show you a liar. Men love them. Women love them. Children love them. Hell, at least half of all homosexuals even love them. I mean, shit; it’s a proven scientific fact that babies who aren’t fed via the hot tit injection turn out to be psychopathic killers! So… Viva la Boobies!!!

Incidentally, if any of this blog’s female readers would like to send me pictures of their hooters, they certainly wouldn’t wind up in my junk mail folder. If you know what I’m saying.