I had just returned to the office after a three-hour, six-martini lunch at my favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, when I was accosted by my dimwitted VP of marketing Sherm Schweinbumser. He had a wild look in his eye, which always indicates that he’s preposterously excited about something that anyone with half a brain couldn’t possibly care about.
“Hey boss, how’s it hanging?” he said. Then, before I had a chance to answer truthfully, added: “So what did you think of Rand Paul’s filibuster? Pretty cool, huh?”
For reasons that I have no interest in understanding, Schweinbumser smelled rather strongly of sour milk this day. The cloying stench threatened to expel the delicious gin and oysters that were still settling in my considerable stomach — a possibility that I was determined to avoid at all costs.
“Sainted Mother of Nixon,” I said. “You smell horrible. What was that about Rand Paul?”
“What?” he said, sniffing at his armpits. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“About me smelling—?”
“Yes, like sour milk. Now cut to the chase, Schweinbumser. I’m a busy man.”
“Sour milk? I—”
“The chase, Schweinbumser! Cut to it! You were babbling something about Rand Paul — out with it!”
“Oh, that.” He gave his left pit one final sniff before continuing. “Well yeah. The filibuster. Pretty cool, huh? He went old school with it!”
I sighed deeply, stared at the ground, and vividly imagined punching Schweinbumser’s teeth out. I won’t lie; it was a pleasurable vision.
“First of all,” I said, “he’s the son of the GOP’s answer to Ralph Nader and disturbingly proud of it. Second of all, regardless of which party utilizes it, filibustering is the political equivalent of sticking one’s fingers in one’s ears while saying ‘nanny-nanny-boo-boo’ in a sad attempt to keep reality at bay. Third of all, you reek of sour milk and in all honesty, I’ve had enough of it. Good day to you.”
“But boss!” Schweinbumser cried out as I beat a hasty retreat toward my office. “The filibuster worked! He got Eric Holder to send him a letter swearing that drones wouldn’t be used on noncombatant Americans on American soil! That’s huge!”
I stopped, shook my head, and turned around slowly. The smell of sour milk was really overpowering at this point. “That’s great, Schweinbumser,” I said. “After all, no one ever in the history of the entire universe has promised to not do something then turned around and did it. Certainly not Comrade Hussein Marx Obama Tse-Tung, that’s for sure. So yes, let’s all applaud Rand for needlessly tying up the legislative process for more than half a day with a grandstanding publicity stunt in order to extract a meaningless prom—”
My overwrought system simply couldn’t take anymore, and a magnificent geyser of booze-infused oyster-bile spewed past my lips and drenched Schweinbumser’s sports coat. Had it stopped there I would’ve found the episode to be hilarious, but my vomit caused Schweinbumser to vomit, which in turn started a rapid-fire vomit domino effect around the office.
Perhaps needless to say, but the whole thing was seriously disgusting.
By the time the last worker had finished retching, nearly every surface was coated with multi-colored, chunky, viscous slime that was sure to be a real bitch for the cleaning staff to deal with. But hey, that’s what they get for not having better jobs.
Anyhow, I took that as my cue to head home for the day. And by “home” I mean “back to Boobs-a-Poppin’,” where I took further advantage of the proprietor’s generous pre-5 p.m. two-for-one lap dance specials. What can I say? I know a good deal when I see one. And I’m pretty good at spotting doofuses too.