Busy day at the office today. So busy, in fact, that I decided to take my traditional three-martini lunch at my desk, which enabled me to simultaneously see to my daily Internet porn requirements. And it was all going swimmingly until my personal secretary, Miss Cashtushy, made the mistake of barging in with a stack of paperwork in her dainty hands.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Carver, but Mr. Luddite asked me to give these to oh my god!”
“Eh? What is it, Cashtushy?” I asked, confused by her outburst. After all, my monitor didn’t face the door, so there was no way she could see the latest Blacks on Blondes clip I was enjoying. “And what have I told you about coming in here without knocking?!”
“You—! Your—!” she stammered, while averting her gaze and trembling like a field mouse.
“What is it, Cashtushy? Spit it out!”
“Your junk!” she cried. “I can see your junk!”
And that’s when I remembered that an ultramodern glass desk such as mine doesn’t really hide anything below the waist. Something I should make a note of for future reference, but probably won’t.
“Oh,” I said. “That. Well, you know what they say: If you have a nice car, why leave it parked in the garage?”
Long story short, Cashtushy didn’t see the humor and I had to cut a check for 10 grand to keep her from running to the HR department. Still, small price to pay to have my naked manhood so close to her magnificent bazoombas. Plus, now that she’s seen what I’m packing, I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before she’s experiencing my “Oh” face. High five.