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.

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.

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.

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.

This was said by my personal secretary, Miss Cashtushy, when I walked into the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs at a quarter to eleven. Furthermore, she was smiling like a lunatic when she said it. Frankly, it made me suspicious that she was up to something.

“It’s good enough so far,” I replied cagily. “But that will change in a hurry if you’re about to ask me for a raise.”

“Not at all, sir,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. “I’m just very, very happy today.”

“Oh? Why is that? Did you finally come to your senses and dump that ugly fiance of yours?”

“Ha! Not even mean comments about my beloved Prince Khalid can get me down today… and it’s all because Mr. Whiffles came back last night!”

“Mr. Whiffles? Is that some kind of 21st century code for your monthly visitor?”

“What? Good grief, no! What is wrong with you? Mr. Whiffles is my cat. Remember?”

“Oh, for the love of–! Grow up, Cashtushy!”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me: grow up. You’re far too mature, and far too beautiful, to let disease-ridden creatures like that dictate your mood.”

Well, I guess found cats aren’t the cure-all mood correctors that Cashtushy previously believed them to be, because even I won’t repeat the string of filth that flew out of her mouth at that point. But I will tell you that the outburst gave me the first Viagra-free boner I’ve had in months. So it had that going for it, which was nice.

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.