That’s the last time I go drinking with my idiot VP, Sherm Schweinbumser. It was his birthday, so I decided to take him to the local Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club for an extended liquid lunch. Dutch treat, of course. Little did I know that Schweinbumser’s a lightweight when it comes to drinking; he was already three sheets to the wind before I’d even hung one out to dry.
“Sweet Jesus, man!” I said, grabbing him by the suspenders as he lolled around listlessly in his stool. “You’ve gotta get a hold of yourself. You can’t go back to work in this condition!”
“The hell I–hiccup!–can’t!” he said, squinting viciously at no one in particular. “I’sh sho drunk, I’m gonna–hiccup!–tell the boss right off when I’sh–hiccup!–getsh back.”
“I am the boss, you moron.”
“Shit, you’re right. Hiccup! Shay… you’re a great bossh, Oz,” he said, leaning in as if to hug me. I recoiled in disgust, slapping his arms away.
“Get the hell off me, Schweinbumser!”
“But I love you, man!”
“Love me? What’s wrong with you? It’s like you’ve never had alcohol before!”
“Not schince–hiccup!–college,” he confessed, eyes darting about furtively. “My wife… she don’t–hiccup!–like me drinking.”
“What? Your wife?! Goddammit! It makes me sick just hearing such nonsense. My advice to you is to leave her, and quick. Don’t waste another minute with that shrew!”
“Mmm, I don’t–hiccup!–know, Oz. I really love — holy shit, that lady’s naked!”
Yes, it took Schweinbumser twenty minutes to realize we were in a titty bar, but he got a lot calmer once he did. What can I say. I like my underlings stupid, so I don’t have to fear them usurping me. Still, what an ordeal. I thought I was taking a man out for a drink, not a weepy female bookstore clerk. And to think that he’s raising two sons. The horror!