Soccer Is The Worst Thing In The World

Has it really been a week since my last post? Well, so much for regular updates, eh? Not that I care. I’m disgustingly wealthy and sleep with a different prostitute — or more — every night. Furthermore, I live in a mansion, own a yacht, have a fleet of high-end luxury vehicles to cart my corpulent ass around, and a veritable army of indigent foreigners sees to my every need. In light of these facts, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that entertaining you is absolutely the lowest carved Indian face on my personal totem pole.

But I digress. Turns out that my vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser, is staying true to form when it comes to aping the behavioral patterns of all the other idiots in this country. By which I mean, he’s deep in the throes of World Cup fever. I discovered this yesterday afternoon when I had the misfortune of passing him in the hall at work.

“How about that big win, boss?” he said, a moronic grin plastered all over his insipid face. “USA forever, am I right?”

“What win?” I demanded. “Did something finally happen to Obama?”

“What?” he said. “No. Geez, what a horrible thing to even think.”

“Oh, get over it,” I said. “And cut to the chase. I’m a busy man, and certainly don’t have the time to stand here lollygagging with the likes of you.”

“I’m talking about our big win over Algeria!”

“We’re at war with Algeria? When did that happen?”

“No — in the World Cup. What an exciting match!”

“Sainted mother of Nixon,” I sighed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Schweinbumser, I’m neither 12-years-old, foreign, nor retarded, and therefore have less interest in soccer than I have in voting Democrat.”

“But it’s the World Cup! It only comes around every four years!”

“Yes, well, so do the Olympics, and you won’t catch me watching that snoozefest either.”

“Well, gosh. What do you like?”

“Whores. And OxyContin. Alcohol and food are good, too. Beyond that? Not much.”

“Oh, okay. I guess you don’t want the souvenir vuvuzela I ordered for you either, huh?”

“Vuvu-what-a?”

“Vuvuzela. You know, the horn that fans are blowing at the matches?”

“Not only do I not want it, Schweinbumser, but you can take your vuvuzela and shove it up your–”

At that moment, my company’s HR director, Harry Fagina, materialized as if from nowhere, a disapproving look on his face.

“Jesus!” I said to Fagina. “Where did you come from?”

“A meeting with Miss Cashtushy, that’s where,” Fagina said. “If you don’t mind, we need to touch base regarding our sexual harassment policy again.”

“Not now,” I said. “The Krakenburger presentation is later today, and I have a lot to do before then. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Fine,” Fagina said, tapping something into his Blackberry. “How about 11 a.m.? Or is that too early for you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’ll see you then.”

I decided to call it a day after that harrowing exchange, and hightailed it down to Boobs-a-Poppin’ in hopes of enjoying some world-class tits, only to find that my favorite strip club had also succumbed to this blasted World Cup nonsense. Oh well. The damn thing started two weeks ago, so it can’t be too long before it’s all over, right? In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just have to drown my sorrows in the STD-tested arms of the call girls at Pete’s Poontang Emporium. Until next time: ta-ta.

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Categories: Business, Culture, Dating, Idiots, Leisure

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