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!

“What, this?” I said, referring to the nearly 2-foot-long slimy white thing cupped in my left hand. “Straight out of my nose. Pretty cool, eh?”

“Good lord,” he said. “You do know that’s a tapeworm, right?”

“What?” I said.

“A tapeworm. Wot wot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, quite positive. I saw loads of them during the Falklands campaign. Usually coming out of the natives’ anuses, however. Never heard of one coming out of a nose before. Pip pip.”

“Jesus.”

“Indeed.”

With that, I hightailed it over to Doc Steinbrau’s offices, where I was given a battery of tests and medicines. Hopefully he’ll call soon with an update. A man in my position certainly can’t have tapeworms dropping out of his nose during business meetings, after all. Wish me luck.

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.

But that’s not the point. The point is: can you blame me? A former U.S. Vice President shot me in the ass, for christ’s sake! Ask yourself what you would do in that situation before you start pointing fingers all over the place.

Besides, the good news is that I’ve slowed down the Oxy train considerably, and will be returning to work tomorrow morning. Moreover, you can expect a return to daily blog posts as of now. Though this counts as a post. Just so we’re clear on that.

Anyhow, I’m off to the pool. If you hear anyone screaming, pay it no mind; it’s just a figment of your imagination. Ta-ta.

Yes, well, it didn’t work: the S.O.B. shot me right in my ass anyhow. What’s more, I’m positive that it was intentional, what with all his Penguin-style laughing about “the most dangerous game.” On the plus side, it alleviates any residual guilt I had for bedding his youngest daughter several years ago.

Okay, I’m off to convalesce. Updates will probably be sporadic this week. After all, with great ass pain comes great prescription medication. Ciao.

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.

Oh well. At this point in my life, the clap is like an old, out-of-town friend who always visits at inconvenient times. I’ve made an appointment with Doc Stinebrau for tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll be right as rain soon enough.

But in the meantime, no real update for you today. Unless you count hearing about my latest bout with an STD as an update, in which case you are one very sick individual. Seek help.

I was a bit confused by this at first, but then I remembered that one of the two call girls I rented last night at Pete’s Poontang Emporium — Mandy? Sandy? Candy? something like that — was a serious gum-chewer. I guess the gum must have fallen out while she was performing her duties. Whew.

Anyhow, just wanted to let you know that I’m okay; no need to send cards, flowers, or anything else. Well, topless pictures wouldn’t hurt if you’re an attractive female. Otherwise, don’t trouble yourself on my account. I’m fine.

I had lunch at my favorite Mexican eatery, El Bolas del Toro, around 1:00 p.m. today and consumed my usual “5-and-5″ — five overstuffed burritos and five extra salted margaritas — then returned to work. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

My post-Mexican afternoon constitutional also proceeded as normal. By which I mean, about 10 straight minutes of high pressure, completely liquified diarrhea. But a large, solid object flew out during the finale, which struck me as odd. So odd, in fact, that I decided to get off the toilet seat and peek down. You know what I saw? A completely untouched burrito floating amongst the chocolatey morass.

Given the extreme singularity of this event, I opted against flushing so that other Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs employees could share in my amazement. I suppose I should take it as a lesson to slow down and chew my food more thoroughly, but crapping out an entire burrito was actually kind of awesome. I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop if it happens again.

And yet, there’s no denying it: I smell like 350 pounds of decaying flesh. Quite the mystery. Perhaps I died over the weekend and didn’t realize it? Is such a thing possible?

Oh well. If the smell isn’t gone by tomorrow, I’ll make an appointment with Doc Stinebrau to get checked out. In the meantime, I’d recommend an upwind defensive position when I’m in the immediate vicinity. Toodle-oo.