“Alright everyone, cover your ears!” I shouted, my voice amplified by a high-powered bullhorn. “This is going to be loud!”
I touched the torch to the cannon’s wick and was soon rewarded with a thunderous explosion. The cannonball rocketed toward the low-rent sailboat before me and pierced its hull with a splintery crunch, eliciting cries of dismay from the understandably shocked college students aboard the smaller vessel.
“Hot damn, Oz!” yelled Bosco Peterman, a former business associate. “That was amazing! And goddamn if that skinny one over there can’t swim!”
Peterman was one of several passengers aboard my yacht yesterday, the others being Charles “Chuck” Luddite XV, Leo Dreisdale, and my attorney Buzz Goldenrod, plus a throng of sexy call girls. It was the first time in months that the weather and my schedule had cooperated enough to take the Donkey Punch III out for a romp and needless to say, an amazing time was had by all. Well, except for those chumps on the sailboat.
After confirming Peterman’s assessment with my binoculars, I nodded. “Ha! I suppose that’ll teach her not to brave the high seas without a life vest. Oh well, certainly none of my concern — I have guests to entertain.”
The bacchanal then commenced in earnest: Booze, drugs, public sex acts, projectile vomiting, random screams, a fistfight, one eventual missing-persons report, and a mysterious bowel movement found in the hot tub shortly after midnight. In other words, business as usual.
Not that any of it can compare with how you spent your Sunday, I’m sure. After all, there’s a lot to be said for yard work, washing eight-year-old Toyotas, mall shopping, or going to church. Thanks for keeping it real, middle-classers — I couldn’t live like I do without you.
Front page image source: MorgueFile