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.

“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.

Have you ever considered a career in amateur porn?

Oh come now, don’t look so offended. It’s a legitimate question. You certainly have the looks for it. Just between you and me? I think you’re beautiful by any standards, not just “porn pretty.” Which means you’ll go further than most should you decide to pursue this lucrative opportunity, FYI.

Once you’re done being so huffy, you’ll probably start to wonder why I’m asking. Well, it’s a little sideline I’m considering. I was sitting there, just yesterday, vigorously enjoying some filthy cinema involving a woman and two rainbow-wigged clowns, when it struck me: as rich as I am, I could be getting even richer by financing a series of adult films!

Turns out that it’s even easier than I’d hoped to start up an adult business. My attorneys cleared the paperwork today, and all that’s left to do is acquire some film equipment and a bevy of female stars. Beyond that, my overhead will be practically non-existant; I’ll be shooting at my mansion, and will personally direct each feature and provide the “male talent.” It’s a veritable license to print money.

What’s that? You must be off? Understandable. But please, take my card before you go. I know you say that such work is beneath you now, but give this economy another year or two and I’m sure you’ll be back. See you then.

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.

“Now see here, Cashtushy,” I said as I approached her desk. “What’s with the waterworks? Is another one of the copywriters giving you grief? Or perhaps a fight with that shiftless fiancée of yours?”

“What?” she said, gazing at me with tear-reddened eyes. “Oh, no. Nothing like that Mr. Carver. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Well, you should be! I haven’t gotten a cup of coffee since before lunch. Are you going to bring me some, or should I just find it myself? If it’s the later, you can be sure this will come up on your next performance review!”

“Find?” she said. “Find?! Oh no, no no no no no…”

“Oh, for the love of–! Look, tell me what the problem is.”

“It’s my cat,” she said, sobbing.

“Ugh, cats. Disgusting creatures,” I said, shaking my head. “My advice to you is to drop it in the nearest dumpster. That will put an end to any miseries that this cat of yours is causing.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“Mr. Carver, what is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? Nothing. Outside of my complete lack of coffee, of course,” I said, holding my cup upside down to emphasize the point. “You say your cat is making you sad, I say get rid of the cat. What’s so wrong about that?”

“The cat’s making me sad because he ran away, you oaf! Poor little Mr. Whiffles, out there all alone with no one to care for him! Oh, it’s horrible. Horrible!”

“Mr. what?”

“Mr. Whiffles.”

“What the hell kind of name is that for–”

“Oh, blow it out your ass, Mr. Carver!” she screeched as she rose from her desk. “I’m taking the rest of the day off. If you need coffee, pour it your damn self!”

And with that she was gone, though at least she gave me a great view as she made her exit. Hopefully she’ll find her cat soon — more for her sake than for my own. After all, the world continues to produce an endless supply of nubile young women with no discernible skills beyond typing, paper-filing, and giving men boners, so replacing her won’t be a problem. Job opportunities for a middle-aged woman aren’t nearly as bountiful.

Anyhow, time to corral one of the other secretaries into fetching me a nice hot cup of java. And after that, probably some Internet porn. Catch you later.

Anyhow, onward and upward:

Dear Oswald–

My panties get wet every time I read your blog, y’know? You can drill for oil in my Alaskan wilderness any time you want!

Your #1 fan,

S.P.

I’ll be on the next jet out of town.

Hey Carve-meister–

I applaud you for standing up and telling it like it is re: Obama being responsible for the big Gulf of Mexico oil spill. The man hates white people, he’s turning our country into a socialist oligarhy [sic], and he scares me to death. Anyhow, I was wondering if you’d like to be a guest on my show in the near future? Radio or TV, your choice. Heck, why not both?

Also, I love the taste of my own feces. Just putting that out there and hoping that you’re a fellow traveler.

Keep the faith,

G.B.

I’d sooner shove bamboo slivers into my own toenails than come within arm’s reach of someone as crazy as you. A restraining order has been filed with your name on it. (Also, “oligarchy” is spelled with a “c,” you moron.)

Dear Mr. Carver–

I’m a proud, white, female conservative honor student who’s graduating high school this summer, and I’d like to choose a career path that will enable me to make the country a better place. What do you recommend?

Thanks,

T.M.

Easy: stripping. Also, learning to overcome your gag reflex wouldn’t hurt. Unless you’re ugly, in which case, i don’t know, become a prison guard? Just do us all a favor and stay away from finance and politics; there are too many women in those fields as it is.

Okay, that’s it for this month. Keep those letters and emails coming!

I’m talking about black gold. I’m talking about Texas tea. I’m talking about… oil.

And now, because of last week’s alleged oil spill, which is allegedly pumping 5,000 barrels of oil a day into the Gulf of Mexico, Obama’s regime is sending mixed signals about that decision. Granted, the Premier is still paying lip service to the idea that it will move ahead, finally freeing us from centuries of strong-arming at the hands of those filthy Arabs. But others in his administration are already starting to lower expectations.

Which has led me to one unavoidable conclusion: Obama himself is responsible for the oil spill.

Shocking, I know, to even ponder the horrible possibility that a sitting presidential usurper would engage in such dastardly behavior. But ask yourself this: does any other explanation make sense? In your heart of hearts, you know the answer is a resounding “no.”

Now, I don’t purport to know exactly how he pulled it off. Maybe he hired a homegrown ecoterrorism group. Or maybe he used out-of-work former ACORN staffers. Or maybe — and frankly, this is the explanation that rings truest for me — he cut a deal with Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chavez to have “Huey” (as Obama is fond of calling him) send in a team of South American covert ops types to do the deed.

We’ve all seen the pictures of them embracing each other with big smiles on their face. We know birds of a socialist feather flock together. And we know that Obama would like nothing more than to see our once proud nation sink lower than his own chances of reelection in 2012. Q.E.D.

Anyhow, that’s the theory I’m going with, and I plan on making some calls this weekend to see if I can’t get the media to start investigating this shocking possibility. I’m sure they won’t — look at how little credence they give to the very credible questions about Obama’s nationality, for Pete’s sake — but I’ll be damned if I won’t try. And I suggest you do the same.

Do it for your principles. Do it for your country. But most importantly, do it for our oil. You know Ben Franklin would insist on it. OZ-1 out.

That’s right, Cashtushy got engaged while she was in Las Vegas. To a dimwitted foreigner no less. And she didn’t even have the decency to tell me upon her return yesterday. No, I didn’t find out until I arrived at the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs this morning and found her showing off her ring to a gaggle of slack-jawed compatriots from the secretarial ranks.

“Oh my god, it’s so big!” said one.

“And so shiny!” squeaked another.

“George Clooney himself couldn’t have bought you a nicer ring, girl!” exclaimed a third.

“Back! To! Work!” I shouted, causing them to scatter. “And you, Cashtushy — what’s the meaning of this ring on your finger?”

“Oh, this?” she said, eyeing it dreamily. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Prince Khalid asked me to marry him while we were in Vegas… and I said ‘yes!’”

“Prince Khalid? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, I think you’re making a big mistake.”

“And why is that?”

“For one thing, I’ve seen this Khalid fellow — let’s just say he’s no George Clooney.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It means he’s butt-ugly. Like some kind of doughy, Middle Eastern Frankenstein’s Monster, if you ask me.”

“Mr. Carver!” she said. ”You are way out of line!”

“Yes, well, don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers.”

“Bastard,” she hissed. “And you have a lot of nerve calling anyone ‘doughy!’”

“Fair enough, but I’m also not out there asking beautiful women to spend the rest of their lives waking up next to me,” I said, handing her my hat and coat. “Anyhow, when you’re done cooing over your ring, I’ll take a cup of coffee.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Don’t make me break out the coffee gongs, Cashtushy!” I said as I walked into my office, slamming the door behind me.

In all honesty, I’m not sure why the news of Cashtushy’s engagement annoys me so much; it’s not as if I have any desire to marry her, anymore than she has an interest in seeing my “Oh” face. Which is her loss, really.

Anyhow: Internet porn, not going to watch itself, don’t let the door hit you on the ass, way out, etc. Toodle-oo.

Good afternoon, my fellow Tea Party Patriots!

[Scattered cheering, intermingled with angry shouts pertaining to the alleged rough treatment of the previous speaker.]

What’s it like to have bad taste?

[Audience silence.]

That was a joke. But you know what’s not a joke? There’s a Kenyan-born fascist dictator with his filthy hands in your wallet as I speak, and he’s not taking them out until he has every one of your hard-earned dollars!

[Loud cheering.]

Or at least thirty-five percent or so. Which is still too much!

[More applause.]

I don’t know about you, but I only make about thirty million a year. By the time the federal government has its take? I’m left with a paltry nineteen-point-five million. And I call bullshit on that!

[Subdued applause.]

Or at least I would be left with nineteen-point-five, if my accountants weren’t so good at hiding my assets. But that’s not the point. The point is…

Wait, what was the point? Oh yes. Many of you have probably noticed that my balls are hanging out of my trousers.

[Shocked reactions from the crowd, many of whom had apparently not previously noticed this fact.]

That’s right. And you’re probably asking yourself: “Why are his balls hanging out?”

Well, I’ll tell you why!

Because this is America! And they can have my balls when they pry them from my cold, dead hands!

[Many audience members, particularly those who attended the rally with their children, are seen vacating the area.]

And why in the hell is prostitution still considered a crime! It’s the 21st century goddammit, and if I want to pay some whore to–wait, what are you doing? I’m not done yet!

[Mr. Carver is tackled and tasered by a detachment of police officers.]

Get your goddamn hands off my neck, you fascists! God bless America!

[End transcript.]