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.

The best part is how the shipping supervisor, “Big” Henry Duboise, cried like a woman after $400 of his money wound up in my pocket. Something about how he had mouths to feed, and his grandmother was in the hospital, and it was a week’s pay, ad nauseam. As if it’s my fault that he: A) bet more than he could afford, B) got married and had kids, and C) accepted a job that only pays four C-notes a week. Might as well bitch to a fire after you willingly shove your hand in it.

Anyhow, I’m off to Boobs-a-Poppin’ to spend my winnings on martinis, chicken wings, and lap dances. Much better than the rent, food, and medicine that Duboise would’ve wasted it on. Ciao.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Carver, but Mr. Luddite asked me to give these to OH MY GOD!”

“Eh? What is it, Cashtushy?” I asked, confused by her outburst. After all, my monitor didn’t face the door, so there was no way she could see the latest Blacks on Blondes clip I was enjoying. “And what have I told you about coming in here without knocking?!”

“You… Your…” she stammered, while averting her gaze and trembling like a field mouse.

“What is it, Cashtushy? Spit it out!”

“Your junk!” she cried. “I can see your junk!“

And that’s when I remembered that an ultramodern glass desk such as mine doesn’t really hide anything below the waist. Something I should make a note of for future reference, but probably won’t.

“Oh,” I said. “That. Well, you know what they say: if you have a nice car, why leave it parked in the garage?”

Long story short, Cashtushy didn’t see the humor and I had to cut a check for 10 grand to keep her from running to the HR department. Still, small price to pay to have my naked manhood so close to her magnificent bazoombas. Plus, now that she’s seen what I’m packing, I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before she’s experiencing my “Oh” face. High five.