I Need A More Discreet Drug Dealer

I was neck deep in some Internet porn when my secretary, Miss Cashtushy, buzzed my private intercom.

“Mr. Carver?” she said. “Your… doctor? Is here to see you.”

“My doctor?” I asked. “Doc Steinbrau? What’s he doing here?”

“Um, no. He says his name is — oh, hold on.” This was followed by a muffled exchange on her end. “Doctor Dave?”

“Oh Sweet Jesus,” I said. “Send him in immediately. And don’t tell anyone he was here.”

Moments later my black market OxyContin connection, Skynyrd Dave, waltzed into my office. He was wearing a knee-length leopard skin coat, black leather pants, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan, “Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear.”

“Hey Oz,” he said. “Nice office, brother!”

“You idiot!” I barked, slamming the door behind him. “What in the name of Great Nixon’s Ghost do you think you’re doing here?”

“Dropping off your weekly supply.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small baggie of my preferred pain medication. “See?”

I snatched the bag out of his hand and whacked him on the back of the head. Ignoring the resulting yelp, I said: “When in the hell did I ask you to deliver to my place of work? This could ruin me if anyone found out!”

“Oh, that. I had some other shit to do on this side of town. Figured I’d kill two opossums with one shell, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know. I’m not even sure what an opossum is, to tell the truth.”

“Well I’ll be. How in the world does a dude get to be as rich as you without knowing something as basic as that?”

I stared at him balefully. “For one thing, I was born rich. More importantly, I can assure you that advanced knowledge of hillbilly fauna is no requirement for success. In fact, it’s probably a hindrance.”

“Huh. I ain’t got no idea what you just said.”

“Yes, well, consider us even for all the indecipherable utterances that have come out of your mouth since we first met.”

Naturally, it was at that moment that Harry Fagina, human resources director for Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, barged into my office after the most perfunctory of knocks.

“Oswald?” he said. “Just wanted to remind you that our sexual discrimination refresher course is starting in… oh. Bad time?”

“No, not at all.” Gesturing towards Skynyrd Dave, I added: “I was just bringing our new intern up to speed on the company’s dress code.”

“Funny,” Fagina said. “I don’t recall hearing about any new interns…”

“I didn’t see any need to trouble you about it. Now then, Mr. Skynyrd — go home for the day, and I’d better see you in more appropriate attire come Monday. This is a place of business, not Saturday night at the local Walmart. Do we understand each other?”

“Uh, maybe,” Skynyrd Dave said. “Are you saying you’ll pay me later?”

“Yes. Amongst other things.”

“Alright. Good. I wouldn’t want to have to cut you or nothing.”

“Very well; I’ll see to it that you’re cared for. Now then, Fagina, let’s get over to that exciting sexual discrimination seminar, shall we?”

Whew, that was a close call. And as a result, I’m in the market for a new Oxy supplier. If you or anyone you know happens to be poor white trash, please get in touch with me ASAP so we can make this happen. You have my gratitude.

Categories: Business, Culture, Drugs, Idiots

Tags: , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. I just KNEW Oswald was an Oxy addict. The phrase “hillbilly fauna” is hilarious.

    • What? I’m not an addict — I’m a user. Because of my back pain, of course. I can’t help it if legitimate doctors refuse to believe how much pain I’m in, forcing me into less-than-legal channels.

      Anyhow, I can quit anytime I choose. Expect paperwork from my libel attorneys shortly!

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