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!

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If that’s not a big enough hint, then I’ll add that a very famous — and very gay — musical icon provided the entertainment. Which, fortunately, did not involve shoving anything into, nor removing anything from, his rectum.

Needless to say, the event was dreadful. For one thing, it’s always sad when a man who should know better allows an obvious gold-digger to sink her claws into his vast wealth. For another, my “date” refused to allow any backdoor entry, if you can believe that. She’s a prostitute, for christ’s sake! And she won’t go far in her chosen line of work with that sort of attitude, I’ll tell you that much.

Anyhow, I should be back to regular posting tomorrow. In the meantime, why don’t you do something useful with your time. If you’re poor, this might include killing yourself so as to alleviate some of the overpopulation problem that the liberals are always going on about. Good day to you.