I just got back from a three-martini lunch at my favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, which in itself is a bit of an oddity. See, when I make a midday trip to that dimly lit slice of heaven, it generally means I won’t be returning to the office. And who can blame me?
After all, everything a man could need can be found within that club’s glitter-drenched walls: booze, chicken wings, pumping tunes, loose women from disadvantaged backgrounds, and more boobies than one could reasonably be expected to ogle no matter how advanced their boob-ogling skills might be. And I assure you, mine are easily in the top one percentile. Ask your mother if you don’t believe me. Regardless, I just wasn’t feeling it.
“What’s the matter, boss?” asked my VP of marketing, Sherm Schweinbumser, who in a rare bit of cognizance had noticed my glum expression. But he was also guzzling down some creamy pink concoction bedecked with paper umbrellas and fruit wedges, making it very difficult to look him in the eye.
“Yeah, boss man,” echoed my VP of acquisitions, Bob Laudermilk. At least he had the good sense to drink whiskey. “You normally love naked boobs. Heck, that’s why Shermie and I decided to treat you to lunch here today, what with your birthday being tomorrow and your longstanding policy of not working on it. Woo-hoo, boobies!”
“‘Shermie?'” I said. “When did you two become lovers? And of course I don’t work on my birthday. Do I look like a slave to you?”
“Well, no,” Laudermilk said. “It’s just…”
“Forget it,” I said after downing the last of my martini. “As much as it pains me to say this, it truly isn’t you — it’s me. I guess I’m just depressed.”
“What are you depressed about?” Schweinbumser asked. “Spielberg not getting the Best Director Oscar? I know I am!”
I stared at him balefully. “Seriously, what in the fiery blue blazes is wrong with you? Were you repeatedly dropped on the head as a child?”
“Huh?” he said, pink slime hanging off his upper lip. “No, I—”
I grabbed a cocktail fork off the table and jammed it against his throat. “Not. Another. Word,” I said. “Understand?”
Schweinbumser nodded slowly, his eyes wide with fright.
“Good,” I said, keeping the fork in place. “And no, I could care less about the Oscars. I guess I’m just depressed about turning 53 tomorrow. You know, one more foot in the grave.”
“Don’t let it get you down, boss man,” Laudermilk said. “You still have plenty of good years ahead of you. Hell, just look at Abe Vigoda!”
“What?” I said, wishing I had another cocktail fork. “What does Abe Vigoda have to do with anything?”
“Well, he’s real old. I bet you’ll be real old one day too!”
I rubbed my temples and closed my eyes tightly. Unfortunately, both of those idiots were still there when I reopened them.
“Right. Well, I guess that’ll do it for me — I’m heading back.”
“Should we come with you?” Laudermilk asked.
“Only if you want to get thrown out of the limo on the way there. Ta ta, assholes.”
After returning to my plush penthouse office, I spent about an hour attempting to catalog some Internet porn, but my heart just wasn’t in that either. By which I mean I couldn’t get it up, and I didn’t want to waste a boner pill on such trivial nonsense. So you get this post instead — lucky you.
Anyhow, I’m not sure if I’ll be posting tomorrow or not, but if you’re curious as to what to get me for a present, might I suggest offing yourself. Particularly if you’re middle class or, worse yet, poor. I’d really appreciate it.