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.

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.

I sighed. It’s bad enough that, since September of last year, I’ve lost my job, my fortune, and my steady supply of high-grade prescription painkillers. Even worse that I spent four months in a state penitentiary for financial crimes that I assure you I did not commit. And downright abominable that I’ve developed a seemingly incurable case of venereal warts that make my John Boehner look like a goddamn pinecone every time a pretty girl walks by.

But the absolute worst part is that, as part of my parole conditions, I have to spend the next half year living in a halfway house. Specifically, the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ’s Center for Sober Living and Bible Study, which is in a bad part of downtown between an abortion clinic and an abandoned Piggly Wiggly. It was there, in the house’s second floor bathroom, that I was trying to take my morning constitutional when I was rudely interrupted by the question that began this post.

“Who wants to know?” I replied.

“Dude who’s gotta shit.”

“Well, ‘dude who’s gotta shit,’ it’ll be at least an hour before I’m finished. I suggest you take your business elsewhere if you don’t think you can wait that long.”

“Yo, fuck that,” said the voice, followed by the sound of a booted foot kicking the door. “I gots to go. Who that in there?”

“Me? Three-Fingers Pete. You know, the skinny Italian fellow who lives on the first floor.”

“You ain’t Pete. Pete ain’t sound like you at all. You that fancy fat motherfucker who rooming with Little Mack, ain’t you?”

“No.”

“Stop fucking lying, man!” More kicking at the door and a few fist pounds before the door flew inwards. The invader and I were immediately at each other’s throats, and it took a team of orderlies to finally tear us apart.

Anyhow, that was my morning. And given that it’s my first day at the halfway house, I can only assume that it will get worse from here. I’ll try to update this blog from time to time now that I’m a free man again, but don’t count on it. In the meantime, I’m off to make an alcoholic beverage that I learned about in prison called “pruno” in hopes that it will make me drunk enough that I can actually get a solid night’s sleep for a change. Toodle-oo.

“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.

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.

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.