Oh well. Guess I’ll have my butler, Montgomery, drive me down to hospital to see what the hell is going on here. Of course, that means my Friday night plan of eating an entire grilled cow before performing debauched coitus with two call girls is shot to hell, but sometimes one must do what one must do.

I’ll let you know how it turns out tomorrow. Don’t wait up.

“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.

Also, I think I started eating ephedrine when I ran out of my Oxy prescription earlier today. All I know is I can’t urinate and my eyeballs feel like sandpaper. Lots of sweating too, but that’s not unusual. When you’re as fat as I am, you can break a sweat sitting naked in a 60-degree room. Trust me on that.

Anyhow: prostitute. Blood. Just one of life’s little does-not-computes, I guess. Good night.

Yes, well, it didn’t work: the S.O.B. shot me right in my ass anyhow. What’s more, I’m positive that it was intentional, what with all his Penguin-style laughing about “the most dangerous game.” On the plus side, it alleviates any residual guilt I had for bedding his youngest daughter several years ago.

Okay, I’m off to convalesce. Updates will probably be sporadic this week. After all, with great ass pain comes great prescription medication. Ciao.

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.

And yet, there’s no denying it: I smell like 350 pounds of decaying flesh. Quite the mystery. Perhaps I died over the weekend and didn’t realize it? Is such a thing possible?

Oh well. If the smell isn’t gone by tomorrow, I’ll make an appointment with Doc Stinebrau to get checked out. In the meantime, I’d recommend an upwind defensive position when I’m in the immediate vicinity. Toodle-oo.

Moreover, getting home was a logistical nightmare. I started off by trying the 7-11, but met with immediate resistance.

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa!” the Hindu man behind the counter shouted as I strolled through the front doors. “No shirt, no shoes, no service, mein Führer!”

I couldn’t understand why the clerk was addressing me in such a manner, though it became clear once I got home: someone had taken the liberty of scrawling a swastika on my forehead with a Sharpie. I don’t know why. Perhaps they had mistaken me for Barack Obama?

“Please,” I said. “I’ve obviously been mugged. Call the police!”

The clerk produced a .357 Magnum from behind the counter and pointed it at me. “I’m calling the police alright. But first you need to leave, or I’m going to let some air out of that disgusting spare tire of yours!”

“Okay, okay, no need for violence,” I said, backing slowly out of the store. “And might I say that you speak English very well for a man of your ethnic background. Kudos to you, sir; you’re a credit to your race.”

Long story short, I waited in front of the 7-11 until the police showed up about 30 minutes later, and I was back at my palatial estate an hour or so after that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m recovering in the hot tub with a stack of nudie mags and a pitcher of Bloody Marys and don’t need you standing around, gawking at my misfortune — don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

• 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.