My Secretary Has Poor Taste In Men

I was in a great mood when I woke up today, which is always a rare event. Unfortunately, that ended soon after I arrived at the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, and my secretary is solely to blame.

“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…”


“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?”



“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.”


“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.

Categories: Business, Dating, Drugs, Idiots, Leisure

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