I was placing some offshore bets on my office computer this morning when there was a knock on the door. Given that my personal secretary, Miss Cashtushy, has taken her hot little body to Las Vegas for a week, I wasn’t expecting this to lead to anything good. In that respect, I wasn’t disappointed.
“Who is it?” I shouted, deftly swapping out GoldmineBetting.com with a very official looking marketing site.
“It’s Mrs. Finklebaum,” Cashtushy’s replacement called out. “I have some papers for you to sign.”
“Christ,” I muttered. Then, loud enough for her to hear: “Okay. Can’t you just slide them under the door?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Carver. They require your immediate attention.”
“Fine! But be quick about it!”
As Finklebaum entered, I gazed intently at my monitor in hopes that I could avoid seeing her disgusting visage.
“Not to worry,” she croaked, placing a small stack of documents on my desk. “This will only take a minute.”
“It better,” I said, shielding my eyes with my left hand as I reached for the papers. “I’m a very busy man and, uh, what in the hell–?”
Finklebaum placed her hand on mine, causing me to involuntarily look up at her… at which point I realized that she was in a skintight, very revealing outfit. Such a get-up would’ve raised Andrew Koenig from the grave had I seen Cashtushy wearing it, but its presence on Finklebaum merely caused my gag reflex to kick in.
“Mother of swine,” I gasped.
“Yes?” Finklebaum said demurely, leaning in closer so as to give me a view of her walnut-esque, hair-covered breasts. At least I think they may have been breasts at one point; they might very well be goiters for all I know. “Is there something you want to say, Mr. Carver?”
“Yes there is,” I said, grimacing. “I think you should put on a coat.”
“Is that all?” she asked, rubbing her stomach in what was probably meant as a suggestive gesture. “Are you sure I’m not giving you a… hard time? Anything you want to say to me along those lines?”
“What? Jesus, no! Do I look like a goddamn necrophiliac to you?”
“Oh. Oh dear,” she said, face drooping. “It’s just that… Lauren told me that this is how she gets under-the-table bonuses from you. Sizable ones at that. I thought–”
“Yes, well, you thought wrong,” I said, the urge to vomit growing stronger with every moment. “And you’re no Cashtushy! Now get out of my office before I call HR!”
Finklebaum finally scurried away, and not a moment too soon as far as my breakfast was concerned. What a nightmare, and I still have three and a half days to go with this nonsense. Speaking of which, time for me to get back to the mental scouring pad that is Internet porn; I really don’t think I could get through this week without it.