Why did our society have to suffer through the Women’s Liberation movement of the 1970s? Wasn’t it to liberate women from alleged oppression at the hands of their superiors (i.e., men)? If so, why are so many of them — including, apparently, my personal secretary Miss Cashtushy — still hellbent on marrying the first guy who offers to put a ring on their finger?
That’s right, Cashtushy got engaged while she was in Las Vegas. To a dimwitted foreigner no less. And she didn’t even have the decency to tell me upon her return yesterday. No, I didn’t find out until I arrived at the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs this morning and found her showing off her ring to a gaggle of slack-jawed compatriots from the secretarial ranks.
“Oh my god, it’s so big!” said one.
“And so shiny!” squeaked another.
“George Clooney himself couldn’t have bought you a nicer ring, girl!” exclaimed a third.
“Back! To! Work!” I shouted, causing them to scatter. “And you, Cashtushy — what’s the meaning of this ring on your finger?”
“Oh, this?” she said, eyeing it dreamily. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Prince Khalid asked me to marry him while we were in Vegas… and I said ‘yes!'”
“Prince Khalid? Really?”
“Well, I think you’re making a big mistake.”
“And why is that?”
“For one thing, I’ve seen this Khalid fellow — let’s just say he’s no George Clooney.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It means he’s butt-ugly. Like some kind of doughy, Middle-Eastern Frankenstein’s Monster, if you ask me.”
“Mr. Carver!” she said. “You are way out of line!”
“Yes, well, don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers.”
“Bastard,” she hissed. “And you have a lot of nerve calling anyone ‘doughy!'”
“Fair enough, but I’m also not out there asking beautiful women to spend the rest of their lives waking up next to me,” I said, handing her my hat and coat. “Anyhow, when you’re done cooing over your ring, I’ll take a cup of coffee.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Don’t make me break out the coffee gongs, Cashtushy!” I said as I walked into my office, slamming the door behind me.
In all honesty, I’m not sure why the news of Cashtushy’s engagement annoys me so much; it’s not as if I have any desire to marry her, anymore than she has an interest in seeing my “Oh” face. Which is her loss, really.
Anyhow: Internet porn, not going to watch itself, don’t let the door hit you on the ass, way out, etc. Toodle-oo.