That is all.

What can I say? I’m a busy man who works hard and plays hard. And is in fact currently hard thanks to the wonder of modern boner pills. But in the interest of keeping my fans apprised of my envy-inducing lifestyle, I’ve decided to supply you with a few choice updates:

• Quarterly reviews went smashingly down at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, and I earned a $2.7M bonus as a result. Furthermore, I called every former employee whom I fired to get that bonus just to let them know how much I’d netted from their misfortune. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much I enjoyed that.
• I’ve packed my adopted son, Kang, off to camp for the summer. Not a moment too soon, either, as it turns out that he recently impregnated one of my maids. Oh well. Boys will be boys.
• Last Thursday, I made a bowel movement so large that it actually shattered a toilet at work. Bombs away, indeed!
• I may or may not have killed another hooker. Please direct all inquiries to my legal team.

Well, I guess that’s it for now — I took the day off from work to do prescription drugs and have paid sex with trashy women, and updating this blog doesn’t qualify as either. Until next time, keep working hard for The Man.

But that’s not the point. The point is: can you blame me? A former U.S. Vice President shot me in the ass, for christ’s sake! Ask yourself what you would do in that situation before you start pointing fingers all over the place.

Besides, the good news is that I’ve slowed down the Oxy train considerably, and will be returning to work tomorrow morning. Moreover, you can expect a return to daily blog posts as of now. Though this counts as a post. Just so we’re clear on that.

Anyhow, I’m off to the pool. If you hear anyone screaming, pay it no mind; it’s just a figment of your imagination. Ta-ta.

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, I think you’re right — it is time for another OxyContin. Ask for it by name.

Next thing I knew, however, the water around me had taken on a decidedly brownish tinge and the call girls were swimming away from me as quickly as possible. The reason? I had crapped my Speedo.

Not the end of the world, I suppose. My butler, Montgomery, took care of the immediate cleanup duties, and I’ll have the pool drained and disinfected on Monday. And it’s not as if I care what hookers think. After all, I pay them for sex. How much lower could their opinion of me be?

Speaking of which, time for me to motor. I’ve moved the party up to the hot tub, and my second dose of Viagra for the evening is really starting to kick in. Catch you on the flip side.

“Mr. Carver?” she said. “Your… doctor? Is here to see you.”

“My doctor?” I asked. “Doc Stinebrau? What’s he doing here?”

“Um, no. He says his name is — oh, hold on.” This was followed by a muffled exchange on her end. “Doctor Dave?”

“Oh Sweet Jesus,” I said. “Send him in immediately. And don’t tell anyone he was here.”

Moments later my black market OxyContin connection, Skynyrd Dave, waltzed into my office. He was wearing a knee-length leopard skin coat, black leather pants, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan, “Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear.”

“Hey Oz,” he said. “Nice office, brother!”

“You idiot!” I barked, slamming the door behind him. “What in the name of Great Nixon’s Ghost do you think you’re doing here?”

“Dropping off your weekly supply.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small baggie of my preferred pain medication. “See?”

I snatched the bag out of his hand and whacked him on the back of the head. Ignoring the resulting yelp, I said: “When in the hell did I ask you to deliver to my place of work? This could ruin me if anyone found out!”

“Oh, that. I had some other shit to do on this side of town. Figured I’d kill two opossums with one shell, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know. I’m not even sure what an opossum is, to tell the truth.”

“Well I’ll be. How in the world does a dude get to be as rich as you without knowing something as basic as that?”

I stared at him balefully. “For one thing, I was born rich. More importantly, I can assure you that advanced knowledge of hillbilly fauna is no requirement for success. In fact, it’s probably a hindrance.”

“Huh. I ain’t got no idea what you just said.”

“Yes, well, consider us even for all the indecipherable utterances that have come out of your mouth since we first met.”

Naturally, it was at that moment that Harry Fagina, human resources director for Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, barged into my office after the most perfunctory of knocks.

“Oswald?” he said. “Just wanted to remind you that our sexual discrimination refresher course is starting in… oh. Bad time?”

“No, not at all.” Gesturing towards Skynyrd Dave, I added: “I was just bringing our new intern up to speed on the company’s dress code.”

“Funny,” Fagina said. “I don’t recall hearing about any new interns…”

“I didn’t see any need to trouble you about it. Now then, Mr. Skynyrd — go home for the day, and I’d better see you in more appropriate attire come Monday. This is a place of business, not Saturday night at the local Walmart. Do we understand each other?”

“Uh, maybe,” Skynyrd Dave said. “Are you saying you’ll pay me later?”

“Yes. Amongst other things.”

“Alright. Good. I wouldn’t want to have to cut you or nothing.”

“Very well; I’ll see to it that you’re cared for. Now then, Fagina, let’s get over to that exciting sexual discrimination seminar, shall we?”

Whew, that was a close call. And as a result, I’m in the market for a new Oxy supplier. If you or anyone you know happens to be poor white trash, please get in touch with me ASAP so we can make this happen. You have my gratitude.

They might be awhile, though; the Punch is drifting a mile or so offshore, and I’m not entirely sure of our exact location. All the OxyContin, Viagra, Old Fashioneds, and call girls I consumed earlier probably aren’t helping, either.

Not that I literally consumed any hookers. Two of them are missing, along with the yacht’s captain, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Nor was I involved with the sinking of a charter fishing boat a few hours ago. Just because the Donkey Punch has cannons doesn’t mean I go around using them, after all. Frankly, I’m offended by your accusatory tone.

Curses. I think I just heard one of the Coast Guarders say something about taking an axe to my door, so I suppose I should wrap this up. I doubt there will be any further updates today given my circumstances, but I’ll try to let you know how it all turns out tomorrow. Toot toot.

“Good morning, Cashtushy,” I said cheerfully as I handed her my hat and coat. “Weather reports say it’s going to be a fantastic weekend.”

“Oh, I don’t need a weatherman to tell me that,” she said, a faraway glint in her eyes.

“Hmm, yes. Well, it just so happens that I plan on taking my yacht out. I’m sure you’ve heard me mention it before — the Donkey Punch?”

“The what?”

“The Donkey Punch.”

“Mr. Carver, that’s…”

“Yes?”

“That’s gross,” she spat. “But par for the course where you’re concerned, I suppose.”

“Harrumph. Yes, well, the reason I mention it is, I was wondering if you might care to join me?”

“Ha!”

“Ha?”

“You heard me: ha!”

“Why ‘ha?’”

“For one thing, I’m not setting foot on a boat…”

“It’s not a boat. It’s a yacht.”

“Can I finish? I’m not setting foot on a boat or a yacht or anything named after a demeaning sex act. For another, I already have plans.”

“You do? With whom?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to the Bahamas with an Arabian prince that I met on Facebook.”

“What?”

“I think all that OxyContin is affecting your hearing, Mr. Carver. Anyhow, his name is Prince Khalid and he’s quite the debonair gentleman. Plus, he has a lot of fancy cars. Even a jet ski!”

“A jet ski? I’m inviting you to spend the weekend on a yacht, and you’d rather vacation with some foreigner who owns a jet ski?”

“Honestly? He could own nothing and I’d rather go out with him than you.”

I have to admit that stung. But only slightly, as my interest in Cashtushy doesn’t extend past showing her my “Oh” face.

“Very well, Cashtushy!” I said, heading towards my office. “Don’t come crying to me when you wind up chained to a radiator in some Persian harem house come Monday morning. Now go get me my coffee!”

All things considered, it’s probably just as well that Cashtushy declined my offer. There’s no denying that she has a fantastic body, but I’ve begun to suspect that she’s as frigid as a Siberian winter. Besides, this frees me up to bring a six-pack of call girls from Pete’s Poontang Emporium along for the ride, and believe you me: women who become sex workers due to low self-esteem and/or limited career options really know how to party.

My initials on the front, and — if you get the good ones — the year Reagan was elected on the back. What’s not to love?