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.

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.

“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.

Oh well. Guess I’ll have my butler, Montgomery, drive me down to hospital to see what the hell is going on here. Of course, that means my Friday night plan of eating an entire grilled cow before performing debauched coitus with two call girls is shot to hell, but sometimes one must do what one must do.

I’ll let you know how it turns out tomorrow. Don’t wait up.

Anyhow, the point of all this is, while the pies were absolutely mouthwatering, I think I may have overdone it. In fact — yes — I’m quite sure that I must vomit now. Which would be sad if it weren’t for the fact that I have several more Boston Cream Pies in my refrigerator, and will consume them as soon as I’ve cleared a little room.

Should you have any immediate concerns, please bring them up with my butler. Good day to you.

This was said by my fill-in secretary, Miss Sugarteats, who was temporarily assigned to me due to an illness on the part of my regular secretary, Miss Cashtushy. She was down on all fours in front of my desk, using carpet cleaner and a sponge to scrub vigorously at what I had assured her was a very ugly stain.

That said, her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her; there really wasn’t a stain. But it did afford me the opportunity to stare openly at her heavenly, skimpily dressed body as she did my bidding.

“Oh, it’s there,” I said lustily. Did I mention that I was filming the display with a miniature camcorder? Because I was. “Just a bit more scrubbing should do the trick.”

The door to my office flew open, and Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs’ human resources director, Harry Fagina, waddled in.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this, Oswald, but your secretary–” He stopped dead in his tracks, a look of confusion on his face as he took in the scene.

“Goddammit Fagina, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” I demanded.

“Yeah, I… Wait a second. What on earth is Miss Sugarteats doing on the floor? And why are you filming her?”

“Filming? Nobody’s doing any filming,” I said, hiding the camcorder behind my back. “You must be seeing things.”

“I’m just scrubbing a stain off the carpet, sir,” Sugarteats said, rising off the ground. “At least, Mr. Carver says there’s a stain there. I don’t see it myself…”

“That’s enough out of you!” I said. “In fact, that’s enough out of all of you. Time for me to go to lunch.”

“Oswald,” Fagina said, shaking his head sadly. “You know I can’t let this slide.”

“Oh?” I said, smiling suavely. “We’ll see about that.”

After handing both of them a check for $10,000, I fled the office and hotfooted it down to my favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, for some much needed lap dances, chicken wings, and martinis. What can I say? The fast-paced world of modern business is extremely stressful, and a company leader such as myself needs all the relaxation he can get.

And on that note, I must bid you adieu. A new girl by the name of Methalina is working the stage right now, and I have a pocket full of twenties with her name on them. Toodle-oo.

Additionally, this strikes me as a good time to take stock of the many reasons why Mexico deserves our continued patronizing admiration:

• Tacos.
• Burritos.
• Tequila.
• Luchadores.
• Donkey shows.
• Women who will do anything for a dime. Sometimes literally.
• Cheap, no-questions-asked prescription drugs.
• World-class gardeners.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off to Pete’s Poontang Emporium, where two sultry senoritas await my amorous attention this evening. Until mañana — adios, muchachos.

Also: I was the fittest person in that store. Seriously. One woman even referred to me as “Slim” as she clawed past me to get to what looked like mass-manufactured deep-fried marshmallow pies. At least I think it was a woman. All I know is, it had tremendous breasts. And a beard. So who knows.

At any rate, Walmart is a horrible place and I’d sooner eat dog shit than shop there again. On that you have my word.