For one thing, with no pressing matters to attend to down at the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, I’ve decided to treat myself to a three day weekend. True, things usually go to hell when I leave my vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser, in charge, but there’s only so much damage he can do in one day.

Moreover, I just placed a call to Pete’s Poontang Emporium and they’re sending a trio of “Catholic school girls” to my palatial estate for the duration. You know, in honor of Lent. Don’t forget to bring your toothbrushes, ladies! Not that your mouths will have a lot of free time, but still.

Also on tap: a gross of OxyContin tablets from my new connection, Skynyrd Dave. You might remember him as the character I met in the parking lot of McDonald’s last week. I generally have a strict policy against doing business with the poor unless I’m in the market for whores or fast food, but given the bad rap that doctor shopping has gotten in recent years, I’ve had to become more flexible in that regard.

Oh, and as to my other little problem. Let’s just say you won’t be hearing any more about Kang, and I have nothing to say about any squirming duffel bags that may or may not have been thrown out of a moving vehicle in front of the local offices of the Department of Immigration. I do hope to have a full-fledged butler hired soon; I’ve certainly learned my lesson about trying to go the cheap route with a foreign-born houseboy.

Anyhow, time for a quick Speedo wax before my dates arrive. If you’re in the neighborhood this weekend, by all means — don’t stop by.

Take this morning, for example. Suffering from a hangover that I feared might be contagious, I made a run to my nearest McDonald’s. Which isn’t very “near,” mind you; I don’t live close to poor people. At any rate, some scraggly bearded, tousle-haired freak came running up to the passenger side of my Hummer as I was waiting in the drive-thru, and had the unmitigated gall to rap his greasy knuckles against my pristine window.

Still, the lad had piqued my curiosity. I powered down the glass.

“Hey, hey mister,” he whispered furtively. “Hey, you need anything?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Why else would I be at a McDonald’s?”

“No man, I mean — you need some smoke? ‘Ludes? Got some tabs too, if that’s your thing.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “In just a year since that Kenyan-born fascist dictator took office, society has already deteriorated to the point where people of your station feel comfortable selling illegal drugs in broad daylight in the parking lots of such iconic American eateries as this? Is that what I’m to understand?”

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said nervously. Then his eyes widened with shock and fear. “Wait a second. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“No,” I assured him. “But I am a culture warrior. That said, I’ll take some Oxys if you have them.”

Which he did, and ten minutes later I was headed back to my palatial estate with a sack full of delicious Egg McMuffins and a small handful of my recreational drug of choice. The only downside is I have Obama to thank for the latter. Not that I ever would, of course. I have my limits.

“Show you my testicles?” I said, confused. “What are you doing outside, officer? Come in, come in! I’m no dope-sucking criminal with something to hide — you have free reign of my home. Unless you’ve come for my computer, in which case I’ll need to see a warrant. Can I get you something to drink?”

That’s when I realized I was behind the wheel of my trusty Hummer. Which was inexplicably parked in the middle of a rather dilapidated McDonald’s. The place was full of people, but instead of employees and customers, they were cops.

Next thing I know, I’m being booked for driving under the influence. Guess the 12 or so OxyContins I took this morning really crept right up on me.

Still, it’s bullshit. Sure, drinking and driving is bad, even if it is occasionally necessary. And driving with a head full of illegal drugs should never be tolerated. But to tell a man he can’t drive after taking prescription medicine, medicine he might very well need to stay alive? You might as well tell that man he can’t drive while breathing. And I’ll be goddamned if anyone’s going to tell me to suffocate myself just because I want to go for a drive.

At least, that’s the argument my attorneys’ll make when this nasty business goes before a judge in a few months. In the meantime, I’m off to pop some more Oxys. You know, to take the edge off.

Silence from the PA box. And then: “Uh, sir? We don’t offer the Super Size anymore.”

“What do you mean, you don’t offer the Super Size? Is this McDonald’s or not?”

The question was rhetorical. I knew for a fact I was at McDonald’s, because I’d driven there in my Hummer for lunch. And I’m not some pill-popping dopehead given to forgetting where he is. Clearly, the same could not be said for the dude working the drive-through this afternoon.

“Yeah, you’re at McDonald’s,” he said. “But like I said, we don’t have a Super Size anymore. Just a Large.”

“A ‘Large?’ But I want a Super Size. What happened to the Super Size?”

“We discontinued it. Due to, uh, health concerns.”

“Health concerns? Again, is this McDonald’s or not?”

“Yeah, man. Like I already said, this is McDonald’s. But…”

“But nothing! If I wanted to discuss health concerns, I’d see a doctor. Which I do. Frequently. But when I come to McDonald’s, I want a lot of greasy food, served up piping hot, with a gallon of Coke to wash it down. Do I make myself clear?”

“Uh, yeah. But like I said…”

“Look — the customer is always right, goddammit! And I am the goddamn customer, and I want a goddamn Super Size with my order, and I’m filthy goddamn rich, so gimme what I goddamn want! Now!!!“

Squeaky wheel greased, I was soon in possession of enough food to feed an entire Ethiopian village. Not that it did; I was quite hungry, and finished every bite.

Like I said, I’m not asking for much. But one of them can’t even live up to those already low expectations.

“Parker!” I shouted from my office. “Parker!! What the hell is with this spreadsheet?”

“Mmm, what do you mean sir?” he said, suddenly materializing beside me.

“Gah! I told you to stop doing that, you creep!”

“Sorry sir.”

“Sorry nothing! Look at this thing — it looks like a frikkin’ five-year-old did it! A retarded five-year-old at that!”

Parker got huffy at that point, like he always does when he’s cornered. “How do you mean, sir?” he asked, blinking dumbly behind his coke bottle glasses.

“Look at it!” I shouted, waving it in his face. “It’s done in crayon — and on the back of a goddamn McDonald’s Happy Meal placemat! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Mr. Carver, I have to say I don’t appreciate being singled out like this,” he said.

That’s when I lodged my foot so far up his ass they had to call in the Jaws of Life to turn me loose. Goddamn Parker.