Additionally, this strikes me as a good time to take stock of the many reasons why Mexico deserves our continued patronizing admiration:

• Tacos.
• Burritos.
• Tequila.
• Luchadores.
• Donkey shows.
• Women who will do anything for a dime. Sometimes literally.
• Cheap, no-questions-asked prescription drugs.
• World-class gardeners.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off to Pete’s Poontang Emporium, where two sultry senoritas await my amorous attention this evening. Until mañana — adios, muchachos.

The upside? I’m eating that son of a bitch tonight. The whole goddamn thing. I’ve never eaten horse before, so this should be quite the experience.

Speaking of which, I need to go find a Mexican to do the slaughtering and cooking — I hear they have a real flair for it. Enjoy your Big Mac or whatever it is you poor people eat; I’m out of here.

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.

“That’s it, that’s it… no, a little to the left,” I said to the two shipping department flunkies who were installing the piece in my office. “A little more… perfect!”

And it really was. The artist who crafted it, Don Paulo Pelea de Gallos, isn’t terribly well known yet, but his talent is sure to make him a household name before long.

“What do you think, boys?” I asked the shipping clerks while lighting a cigar. Don’t ask me their names; I can’t be bothered to familiarize myself with anyone as low on the corporate totem pole as these two are.

“Out of sight, man,” said the tall one.

“Yeah,” his partner added. “I can’t believe they’ll let you hang this in your office!”

“Benefits of membership, lads,” I said, smiling broadly. It was then that my personal secretary, Miss Cashtushy, walked in and spoiled my moment in the sun.

“Mr. Carver,” she said, looking down at a tall stack of papers in her lily white hands, “I need to get your signature on OH MY GOD!”

“What is it, Cashtushy?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you don’t have an appreciation for fine art?”

“Fine art?” she parroted. “Fine art?”

“Yes, that’s right. Fine art.”

“But it’s–”

“Yes?”

“It’s a painting of a vagina!”

“It is indeed. A beautiful one at that.”

“But–”

“There will be no buts! It’s my office, and I can hang anything I want on these walls!”

As it turned out, there is some arcane rule on the books at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs that says employees can’t actually hang anything they want on their walls, no matter how highly placed the employee nor how tasteful the art. Furthermore, Cashtushy didn’t find any humor in my suggestion that she take a part-time job as a model for Pelea de Gallos, and I wound up having to cut her yet another check for $10,000 to sweep it all under the rug.

Ha. “Sweep it under the rug.” No pun intended, but I’ll let it stand.

Anyhow, I’m heading home early to decide on a suitable place to hang this exquisite work of art. Probably over my bed — nothing gets a woman in the mood faster than a giant reproduction of a vagina, especially when it’s rendered on black velvet. Ta-ta.

“Psst, boss. Hey boss.“

“What?” I said. “Who’s there?” I recognized the voice, of course; it belonged to my idiot vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting that.

“It’s me — Sherm.“

“Sherm who?”

“Sherm Schweinbumser. Your VP?“

“Oh,” I said. “You. What have I told you about talking to me in the men’s room, Schweinbumser?”

“Uh… not to do it?“

“Exactly. And yet here we are.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… well, I have a problem.“

“I’ll say you do. For one, you’re talking to me in the restroom. Secondly, you sound awful.”

“Oh, that. I’m whispering.“

“Why?”

“So I don’t attract attention.“

“Jesus Christ, man. You weren’t making any sense to begin with and it’s been all downhill from there. Cut to the chase already.”

“I–“

“And stop whispering!”

“Alright,” he said. “I… I sort of have my arm stuck in the toilet.”

This was a new low even for Schweinbumser, and it stunned me into silence for several seconds. Finally, I said: ”Come again?”

“My arm. It’s stuck in the toilet.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but. Why?”

He moaned softly. “My wedding ring… it slipped off my finger. I was trying to get it back.”

“How did it slip off your finger?”

“I was, uh. I was wiping.”

“Dear god. You mean?”

“Yeah.”

Having finished my business, I rose, flushed, and zipped up my pants.

“Schweinbumser, that is without a doubt the most disgusting story I’ve heard in ages. And I hear plenty of disgusting stories in the circles in which I travel. Hell, I’m responsible for most of them. Frankly, I have half a mind to fire you.”

“Oh, geez. Please don’t do that. I’m going to be in enough trouble as it is, what with losing my ring.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, do you have your cellphone on you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, call maintenance. Removing employees’ arms from crap-filled toilets isn’t in my job description, and I have a lot of work to do this afternoon. Ta ta.”

That Schweinbumser. Good thing he’s willing to work so hard for so little pay or he would’ve been out on the street ages ago. Anyhow, I have to split; Miss Cashtushy is wearing a preposterously tight outfit today, and I need to think up some reason for her to do a lot of bending and stretching in my office. Wish me luck.

• I found five call girls in my bed, two in the master bathroom, and one each in the pantry, sauna, and library.
• An entire mariachi band is sacked out in my living room. With a donkey.
• There’s a helicopter in my swimming pool.
• A herd of giraffe is wandering the grounds wearing oversized bowties.

In other words, sounds like a good time was had by all. The only disconcerting part is that my primary SUV has “Just Married” written in the back window and is adorned with tin cans on strings. But given that the front passenger seat is occupied by a rather cheap-looking inflatable sex doll, I won’t spend any time worrying about that just yet.

Anyhow, time to find Montgomery. There’s a lot of cleaning to be done, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m lifting a finger to help. Adios.

This was said by a wart-and-hair-covered hillbilly who appeared to be brandishing a shotgun. I couldn’t be sure though; I had just awoken and could barely see a thing through my sleep-encrusted eyes. Moreover, I was suffering from the absolute worst hangover of my life, and wasn’t entirely positive that I wasn’t hallucinating the situation.

“Please,” I croaked, “keep it down. There’s no need to shout.”

“I’ll shout all I goddamn want, boy! You decide to sack out in a man’s carport, you damn well better expect to get shouted at! Shit, I’ve half a mind to curb-stomp your disgustin’ ass! Now get on up or Ol’ Betsy here’ll make sure you stay down for good!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t do anything brash.” I slowly pushed myself up… which is when I realized that I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or anything below the waist for that matter. In fact, the only thing I had on was a three-sizes-too-small T-shirt emblazoned with a Corvette logo.

“Goddamn son, you are one sorry sight! Now you just go ahead and get them flabby arms of yers up while I call for the police.”

“Police? I don’t think…”

“Shut the fuck up!” my captor shouted, then turned slightly towards the hovel that presumably passed for his home. “Hey Dave! Get yer ass on out here! And bring that there portable phone with you!”

A moment later, this Dave character came shuffling out through a screened door. Much to my surprise, it was none other than Skynyrd Dave — the illicit OxyContin supplier whom I had met in the parking lot of McDonald’s last month. I say without an ounce of hyperbole that I had never been happier to see a poor person.

“What in the hell’s going on out here, Doug?” Skynyrd Dave asked. Then, upon seeing me: “Shit. Oz, is that you?”

“Yes,” I said. “And I’ve told you before: call me Mr. Carver.”

“Wait a second,” said Doug. “You two know each other?”

“Hell yeah, man,” Skynyrd Dave confirmed. “He’s one of my best customers. What are you doing pointing a shotgun at him?”

“I found him passed out here in the carport. And he ain’t wearing no pants.”

“Huh. Yeah, where are your pants, Oz? I mean, Mr. Carver?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone must have stolen them. My wallet too, obviously. But if one of you could give me a ride home, I’ll gladly reimburse you for your troubles once we get there.”

Thirty minutes later, I was soaking in a hot tub and chasing the hair of the dog with a pitcher of Bloody Marys at my palatial estate. Still, quite the adventure. I’ll probably never know how I wound up in that carport, and I don’t expect to see my still-missing Hummer again, but one thing’s for certain: whether he had anything to do with it or not, I’m firing Luis first thing Monday morning. There’s simply too much cheap Mexican labor available in this country to ever give one of them the benefit of the doubt.

Smart move on his part, too — it never hurts to suck up to the boss.

Mind you, I don’t normally associate with the poor. Or the middle class. But I’m always willing to make an exception when it comes to four of life’s simplest pleasures: fast food, prostitutes, illegally obtained prescription drugs, and cockfights.

Given the seedy neighborhood I’ll be in, a superfecta is a distinct possibility. Wish me luck.

So anyhow, it was a good night. Every cock I bet on won. What’s more, I spent the winnings on the ugliest Mexican whore I could find, then gave her a savage beating in a roach-infested motel strategically located behind an abortion clinic. What can I say? I was on a bad side of town. People live like animals over there, and they deserve what they get.

Alright, I gotta split — I shit my pants on the drive home, and need to wake the houseboy and tell him to go scrub down the Hummer’s interior before feces soaks into the fine Corinthian leather seats. Then it’s straight to bed for me. I would take a shower first, but I’m beat, and what do I care if my sheets get shitty? It’s not like I’m the one who has to wash them, right?

Now, longtime visitors to this blog will recall my fondness for rim jobs. Fortunately for me, this isn’t just a service Shaniqua’s willing to provide; it’s her specialty. Unfortunately for her, I had Mexican for lunch. Lots of Mexican. Which, for me, inevitably means corresponding levels of diarrhea. You do the math.

Not that it was all bad. I mean, I did gain a new fetish. You gotta take your victories where you can find them, folks.