Or as I like to call it, gonorrhea.

“Christ almighty, Oz,” Stinebrau said with a bemused look as he pored over some test results. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“What do you mean?” I said, warily. “It’s not AIDS, is it? Because that would really be bullshit, given that I’m neither gay nor a woman.”

“What? No, it’s not AIDS,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You shouldn’t even joke about that. AIDS isn’t funny.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Comedy happens to you. Tragedy happens to me.”

“In that case, I find what you have to be hilarious,” he said.

“Oh? And what do I have?” I demanded. “Is it gonorrhea or isn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s gonorrhea. But goddamn if this sumbitch isn’t resistant to just about everything! Penicillin, tetracycline, erythromycin, ciprofloxacin — nothing’s killing it off! I read about this shit, but didn’t expect to see a case of it in an upper class individual such as yourself.”

“Sweet Nixon’s Ghost,” I said, beginning to get genuinely worried. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing to be done about it?”

“Well, we’ll try some cephalosporins. But if that doesn’t work, you’re fucked!”

Fortunately they did work, and the inflammation is already dissipating. Which means I can get back to banging call girls again tomorrow night. What, you didn’t think I would take this as a wakeup call, did you? Get real, hippies; a life lived in fear isn’t worth living at all. Ta-ta.

Hell yes. That woman clearly doesn’t know the meaning of “beating around the bush.” Though I’d love to beat around her bush, if you know what I mean. If you don’t, I mean I want to have dirty monkey sex with her. Bristol too, for that matter. High five.

Sure, the bill itself was a black eye for the Grand Old Party. But thanks to two of my all-time favorite political techniques — shouting down opponents coupled with threats of physical violence — we’re once again steering the conversation in a way that would no doubt make the Great Communicator himself swell with pride.

My favorite so far? Fellow conservative pundit Glenn Beck’s assurance that Nancy Pelosi is wondering “what the hell do you have to do to these people to get them to kill us?” Ha! I love it. I suppose that’s why he’s on the radio and cable television while I’m stuck pushing my agenda from this blog. Oh well. At least I’m worth more than him.

Then there are all the phoned-in death threats plaguing Socialist congressmen across the country. Hilarious! And no less than they deserve. I can’t believe I’m quoting this dope-sucking waterhead, but I think John Lennon said it best: “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t gonna make it with anyone anyhow.” Words to live by, my friends.

Alright, time for me to skedaddle. There’s a big Tea Party convention downtown tonight, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Mostly because the female members turn into real whores once their bloodlust gets going, and nobody appreciates a frenzied slut more than me. Bank on it.

This was Charles “Chuck” Luddite XV, CEO of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs. Not to be confused with his father, Charles XIV, who chairs the board of directors. Chuck had taken me and a few other department heads down to our favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, to discuss the health care crisis. That, and to ogle some naked women.

“I couldn’t agree more, Chuck,” chirped Dick Needley, our consumer affairs president.

“Of course you couldn’t, you sycophantic little turd,” I grumbled.

Accounting president Leo Dreisdale chuckled at this, and I’m sure R&D’s Bosco Peterman would’ve too if he wasn’t so enraptured by the bouncy slut parading around on stage.

“Shut your filthy mouth, Carver,” Needley hissed, waving his Mai Tai at me. “Or I’ll shut it for you!”

“I’d like to see you try. In fact, I’m begging you.”

“That’s enough, boys,” said Chuck. “In-fighting doesn’t pay at times like these.”

“Sorry, Chuck,” said Needley. “Won’t happen again.”

“Here’s the problem as I see it,” Dreisdale offered. “There’s just too many goddamn poor people!”

“And your point is..?” I asked warily.

“Well… we have to do something about them!”

“I hope you’re not about to suggest more social programs,” Chuck grimaced. “Not if you want to keep your job.”

“Jesus, of course not!” Dreisdale said, looking offended. “I’ve been a Republican since the day I was born, Chuck. You know that.”

“Alright, alright. What are you proposing?”

“How about reservations? Like we used to do with all those filthy Indians.”

Chuck mulled it over for a moment. “You know? That’s not a bad idea, Leo. I’ll run it up the flagpole at the next Project for the New American Century get-together. Anyone else?”

“Holy shit!” Peterman shouted while slapping the table. “I’d kill my wife and kids for the chance to suck on those hooters!”

We all turned to look at the source of his distraction.

“Good eye, Bosco,” I said, nodding in agreement. “No need to kill anyone to get with her though; she works down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium every Tuesday and Thursday night. Name’s Camaro, I believe.”

“Hot damn!” Bosco said. “That girl’s going to be sorry she was ever born by the time I get through with her!”

“Alright boys,” Chuck said, rising. “Guess we should get back to the office before those middle class idiots who work for us burn the place down. And before Peterman here messes his shorts! Needley, get the tab.”

Anyhow, that was my lunch today. Pretty typical for a fat rich bastard like myself. At least until Obama takes away all our money to pay for your indigent ass’s health care. Hope you’re happy.

Nazi Germany. Seig Heil!

“Been here since yesterday afternoon, Mistah Boss,” he sneered. “You just too stupid to notice. Now shut fat mouth! Me wait hours to see American white trash slut naked, and me no want to miss it!”

“Hannah Montana never gets naked. Trust me. And who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Me talk to asshole boss who no offer health plan, that who!”

“Why you ungrateful little shit. If it weren’t for me, you’d no doubt be working as a human toilet in some AIDS-infested brothel back in your home country! Is that what you want?!”

“Maybe me do, Mistah Boss! At least me no have… this!“

With that, Kang jumped off the couch and raised his left arm in the air, spilling Doritos everywhere. Apparently the doctors had been unable to save the hand, and replaced it with a hideous prosthetic hook.

“Good god,” I said. “Put that thing away. It’s making me sick!”

“Make you sick? Make me sick! Doctors say, ‘Where your insurance? We save hand if you have insurance.’ Me say, ‘Me no have insurance! Have cheap boss!’ Doctors say, ‘Ha ha, then we give you hook!’ Hook, Mistah Boss! They give me hook!“

“Alright, alright,” I said, waving him back while stifling my gag reflex. “Tell you what: take the rest of the day off. Heck, take two days.”

“Two days? That it? Be real shame if me sleep walk and put hook in your eye!”

“Fine. A week. But no more than that!”

“Okay, Mistah Boss,” he said, sinking back into the couch. “We have deal. Now go away! Hannah Montana sure to get naked any second!”

I have to admit I feel a bit bad about his situation, even though it’s hardly my fault that the lad isn’t industrious enough to get a decent job with health benefits. Still, it’s definitely time to find a new houseboy. I know I’ve threatened to do so many times in the past, but now that Kang’s a walking timebomb of eye-stabbing fury, it’s jumped to the top of my to-do list. Let me know if you’re interested in the position.

This was my houseboy, Kang, but I was in no mood for his shenanigans. Not with the big Steinkenblaut presentation coming up later this afternoon.

“Goddammit Kang,” I said, eyes fastened to my morning paper. “How many times do I have to tell you: el no disturb-o during-o el breakfast-o, you halfwit!”

He made with a burst of the rapid hissing and spitting sounds that pass for language in his native country, then added: “Me bleeding, fatso! And me no speak Mexican!”

I looked up. Sure enough, the lad was lying in a pool of his own blood in front of the kitchen sink. More disturbingly, he was really making a mess of the place.

“What the hell is all this?” I demanded. “You’d better not be goldbricking just to get some time off.”

“Me no brick gold, asshole! Catch hand in garbage disposal — big time disfigured for life! Me need help!”

I sighed and tossed the paper down in disgust. “Alright, alright, calm down. Let’s go over your options.”

“Options? Is no options, Mistah Boss! You take me hospital! You take me now!”

“Hospital?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “When did you get health insurance?”

“No health insurance! You say you no pay for it!”

“Of course I don’t pay for your insurance. As I’ve tried to explain to you numerous times, you’re an independent contractor. Say it with me: in-dee-pen…”

“God fuck your pendant compactors! Hospital! Now!“

I sighed again and whipped out my cellphone. “Fine. I’ll call an ambulance. But don’t come crying to me when you’re still paying off this little accident of yours 80 years from now. Frankly, I’d try to make do with an ACE bandage and some Bactine if I were in your indigent shoes.”

Twenty minutes later, Kang was being carted off and I was on my way to work, shrewdly refusing to sign anything before I left. Typical liberal, expecting to enjoy the same quality of life to which those of us with gumption and drive are entitled. Good thing all that talk of “affordable health care for everyone” died in its crib or they’d be getting it, too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do. This Internet porn isn’t going to watch itself, after all.