“I’ll tell you, I don’t think the G.O.P. has let me down this badly since they ran Dole back in ’96. What a useless old fossil he was.”
This was Charles “Chuck” Luddite XV, CEO of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs. Not to be confused with his father, Charles XIV, who chairs the board of directors. Chuck had taken me and a few other department heads down to our favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, to discuss the health care crisis. That, and to ogle some naked women.
“I couldn’t agree more, Chuck,” chirped Dick Needley, our consumer affairs president.
“Of course you couldn’t, you sycophantic little turd,” I grumbled.
Accounting president Leo Dreisdale chuckled at this, and I’m sure R&D’s Bosco Peterman would’ve too if he wasn’t so enraptured by the bouncy slut parading around on stage.
“Shut your filthy mouth, Carver,” Needley hissed, waving his Mai Tai at me. “Or I’ll shut it for you!”
“I’d like to see you try. In fact, I’m begging you.”
“That’s enough, boys,” said Chuck. “In-fighting doesn’t pay at times like these.”
“Sorry, Chuck,” said Needley. “Won’t happen again.”
“Here’s the problem as I see it,” Dreisdale offered. “There’s just too many goddamn poor people!”
“And your point is..?” I asked warily.
“Well… we have to do something about them!”
“I hope you’re not about to suggest more social programs,” Chuck grimaced. “Not if you want to keep your job.”
“Jesus, of course not!” Dreisdale said, looking offended. “I’ve been a Republican since the day I was born, Chuck. You know that.”
“Alright, alright. What are you proposing?”
“How about reservations? Like we used to do with all those filthy Indians.”
Chuck mulled it over for a moment. “You know? That’s not a bad idea, Leo. I’ll run it up the flagpole at the next Project for the New American Century get-together. Anyone else?”
“Holy shit!” Peterman shouted while slapping the table. “I’d kill my wife and kids for the chance to suck on those hooters!”
We all turned to look at the source of his distraction.
“Good eye, Bosco,” I said, nodding in agreement. “No need to kill anyone to get with her though; she works down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium every Tuesday and Thursday night. Name’s Camaro, I believe.”
“Hot damn!” Bosco said. “That girl’s going to be sorry she was ever born by the time I get through with her!”
“Alright boys,” Chuck said, rising. “Guess we should get back to the office before those middle-class idiots who work for us burn the place down. And before Peterman here messes his shorts! Needley, get the tab.”
Anyhow, that was my lunch today. Pretty typical for a fat rich bastard like myself. At least until Obama takes away all our money to pay for your indigent ass’s health care. Hope you’re happy.