“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.

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.

That is all.

“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.

What can I say? I’m a busy man who works hard and plays hard. And is in fact currently hard thanks to the wonder of modern boner pills. But in the interest of keeping my fans apprised of my envy-inducing lifestyle, I’ve decided to supply you with a few choice updates:

• Quarterly reviews went smashingly down at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, and I earned a $2.7M bonus as a result. Furthermore, I called every former employee whom I fired to get that bonus just to let them know how much I’d netted from their misfortune. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much I enjoyed that.
• I’ve packed my adopted son, Kang, off to camp for the summer. Not a moment too soon, either, as it turns out that he recently impregnated one of my maids. Oh well. Boys will be boys.
• Last Thursday, I made a bowel movement so large that it actually shattered a toilet at work. Bombs away, indeed!
• I may or may not have killed another hooker. Please direct all inquiries to my legal team.

Well, I guess that’s it for now — I took the day off from work to do prescription drugs and have paid sex with trashy women, and updating this blog doesn’t qualify as either. Until next time, keep working hard for The Man.

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.

But if that is the case — and I’m in no way confirming that it is — I can assure you that I was smart enough to never kill someone who came from a loving, caring family. For one thing, it brings way too many questions. As van der Sloot can no doubt attest! For another, there’s simply no reason to. Not with the never-ending supply of sexually abused young women-turned-prostitutes that our modern society continues to churn out at a rate that some would call alarming (but that I call just right).

Speaking of which, I’m running a little late for two-for-one night down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium, so I must bid you adieu. All the best whores are taken by 9:00 p.m., and I don’t want to get stuck with Fat Patty and her ugly sister Velma again. So until next time, adios.