What is it with this George Clooney character, anyhow? Why do the ladies go gaga crazy* for him? And how does he manage to afford such a jet-setting lifestyle when the only things on his resume appear to be a stint as a TV doctor and a dozen or so of the world’s most boring movies?
Why the rant, you ask? I’ll tell you. Following a four-martini lunch at my favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, I returned to the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs to find a gaggle of slack-jawed women clustered around the desk of my personal secretary, Miss Cashtushy.
“Oh my god, he’s so dreamy!” one of them was saying.
“And so romantic!” cooed another. “Did you hear that he just bought his girlfriend a private island?”
“Can you imagine?” added Cashtushy. “Oh, I’d marry George Clooney in a heartbeat. A heartbeat!”
“Plus, you’d still have the same initials!” said a fourth, at which point they all laughed hysterically.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I barked. “Why does my office entrance look like the lobby of the world’s most boring French cathouse? Don’t you women have work to do?”
“Oh! Mr. Carver!” Cashtushy said, looking shocked as the other girls scattered. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon!”
“Yes, well, here I am,” I said, handing her my hat and coat. “And I don’t want to hear any more about this Clooney fellow, understand?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Carver. Very sorry about that.”
“You should be,” I harumphed. “This is, after all, a place of business — not a hair salon!”
“You’re absolutely correct, sir. It was very unprofessional of me,” she said meekly. Then: “Did you have a good lunch?”
“Of course I did. They don’t call that place Boobs-a-Poppin’ for nothing, you know. Heck, maybe you should look into doing a little moonlighting down there, Cashtushy. I know that I’d certainly be trying to slip more than singles into your g-string, if you know what I mean!”
Unfortunately, she knew all too well what I meant, and I was soon parting with another check for ten grand so as to avoid any unpleasantness with the HR department. You’d think that, with all the hush money I’ve already paid her, I’d at least have gotten a look at her magnificent bosom by now. Oh well. Just one more reason to punch Gloria Steinem in the nose if I ever meet her.
* Changed due to a suggestion from my butler, Montgomery, who was afraid that the use of “ladies” and “gaga” in such close proximity might be read as a reference to “Lady Gaga.” I had no idea who she/he was until Monty showed me a picture, and I will now do everything in my power to forget her/him. If I don’t, I fear I’ll suffer from permanent erectile dysfunction.