Lucky me: it’s “Bring Your Children to Work Day” at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs. Which means the office was crawling with an army of unsocialized, disease-infested midgets when I stumbled through the front door at a little before 10 this morning.
“Cashtushy, call the police!” I barked as I approached my personal secretary’s station. “We’ve been invaded by pygmies — and most of them are albinos!”
“What nothing! I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that there are few things more deadly than an albino pygmy. They’re deadshots with those poisoned blowguns!”
“Calm down, Mr. Carver,” she said, taking the hat and coat from my trembling hands. She then explained the situation to me, adding: “Didn’t you recently adopt a boy? Where is he today?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Oh, I just thought…”
“Well, stop thinking. And if you’re done with the stupid questions, I’ll be in my office. Don’t you dare let any of these brats through that door!”
I managed to get a little peace and quiet for the next hour. Unfortunately, my reverie was then shattered by a loud knock.
The timing couldn’t have been any worse, either, given that I was just about to spend some quality time with covert webcam footage of Cashtushy in the ladies room. Don’t ask how I procured it; a wizard never reveals his secrets.
“Who is it, goddammit!” I shouted, zipping up my pants. “Can’t a man get any work done around here?”
The door flew open and my idiot vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser, stuck his head in.
“Sorry boss,” he said. “I was just wondering if you had time to meet my boys?”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind, Schweinbumser? Give me one good reason why I would want to spend a moment more than I have to with you, much less your idiot…”
It was then that I noticed two younger, smaller versions of Schweinbumser were also peeking in, both faces plastered with looks of confusion, shock, and sorrow.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Fine. Come in.”
Thirty minutes later, the four of us strolled out of my office. Cashtushy was looking at me approvingly as I ushered the Schweinbumsers out. At least, until she heard what I was saying.
“…and that, boys, is where babies come from. I hope you found it to be enlightening.”
“But why did she have poop on her face?” asked Schweinbumser’s oldest son, whose name I certainly don’t remember.
“Tut tut,” I said. “Save any questions for your old man; I wouldn’t want to steal his thunder any more than I already have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to lunch.”
Schweinbumser leaned in as I prepared to make my escape, whispering, “Jesus, Oz. I really wish you hadn’t shown them that.”
“Yes, well, I really wish you hadn’t brought them into my office,” I whispered back. “Now get back to work!”
Probably no surprise, but I decided to call it a day at that point and have been throwing dollar bills at naked women down at Boobs-a-Poppin’ ever since. Sure, the drinks are overpriced and the strippers hate me, but at least I never have to worry about seeing any children when I’m at this club. Though I suppose the odd 17-year-old wouldn’t be any trouble.
Jesus, relax. That’s legal in most countries. Even some parts of the Deep South for that matter. Anyhow, you’ll have to excuse me — DeMenthe is about to take the stage and I don’t plan on missing a moment of her routine for the sake of entertaining you. Au revoir.