What is shocking, however, is the obvious litmus test he’s using when it comes to selecting Supreme Court nominees. No, I’m not talking about their views on abortion, nor whether or not they truly believe that the Constitution is the supreme law of the land (hint: they don’t). It goes deeper than that. Skin deep, if you will.

That’s right: I’m saying that Obama wants a Supreme Court stocked with nothing but women. More specifically, he wants fat, ugly women. Trying to shoehorn females into a court that was created by and intended for men is insulting enough, but making them ugly to boot? That’s really beyond the pale.

At any rate, that’s my two cents. Senators and congressmen, please heed the call by voting “Hell No!” on Elena “Peppermint Patty” Kagan when she comes up for review. Your country and my eyeballs thank you in advance.

I’m talking about black gold. I’m talking about Texas tea. I’m talking about… oil.

And now, because of last week’s alleged oil spill, which is allegedly pumping 5,000 barrels of oil a day into the Gulf of Mexico, Obama’s regime is sending mixed signals about that decision. Granted, the Premier is still paying lip service to the idea that it will move ahead, finally freeing us from centuries of strong-arming at the hands of those filthy Arabs. But others in his administration are already starting to lower expectations.

Which has led me to one unavoidable conclusion: Obama himself is responsible for the oil spill.

Shocking, I know, to even ponder the horrible possibility that a sitting presidential usurper would engage in such dastardly behavior. But ask yourself this: does any other explanation make sense? In your heart of hearts, you know the answer is a resounding “no.”

Now, I don’t purport to know exactly how he pulled it off. Maybe he hired a homegrown ecoterrorism group. Or maybe he used out-of-work former ACORN staffers. Or maybe — and frankly, this is the explanation that rings truest for me — he cut a deal with Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chavez to have “Huey” (as Obama is fond of calling him) send in a team of South American covert ops types to do the deed.

We’ve all seen the pictures of them embracing each other with big smiles on their face. We know birds of a socialist feather flock together. And we know that Obama would like nothing more than to see our once proud nation sink lower than his own chances of reelection in 2012. Q.E.D.

Anyhow, that’s the theory I’m going with, and I plan on making some calls this weekend to see if I can’t get the media to start investigating this shocking possibility. I’m sure they won’t — look at how little credence they give to the very credible questions about Obama’s nationality, for Pete’s sake — but I’ll be damned if I won’t try. And I suggest you do the same.

Do it for your principles. Do it for your country. But most importantly, do it for our oil. You know Ben Franklin would insist on it. OZ-1 out.

Moreover, getting home was a logistical nightmare. I started off by trying the 7-11, but met with immediate resistance.

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa!” the Hindu man behind the counter shouted as I strolled through the front doors. “No shirt, no shoes, no service, mein Führer!”

I couldn’t understand why the clerk was addressing me in such a manner, though it became clear once I got home: someone had taken the liberty of scrawling a swastika on my forehead with a Sharpie. I don’t know why. Perhaps they had mistaken me for Barack Obama?

“Please,” I said. “I’ve obviously been mugged. Call the police!”

The clerk produced a .357 Magnum from behind the counter and pointed it at me. “I’m calling the police alright. But first you need to leave, or I’m going to let some air out of that disgusting spare tire of yours!”

“Okay, okay, no need for violence,” I said, backing slowly out of the store. “And might I say that you speak English very well for a man of your ethnic background. Kudos to you, sir; you’re a credit to your race.”

Long story short, I waited in front of the 7-11 until the police showed up about 30 minutes later, and I was back at my palatial estate an hour or so after that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m recovering in the hot tub with a stack of nudie mags and a pitcher of Bloody Marys and don’t need you standing around, gawking at my misfortune — don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

This was Charles “Chuck” Luddite XV, CEO of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs. Not to be confused with his father, Charles XIV, who chairs the board of directors. Chuck had taken me and a few other department heads down to our favorite strip club, Boobs-a-Poppin’, to discuss the health care crisis. That, and to ogle some naked women.

“I couldn’t agree more, Chuck,” chirped Dick Needley, our consumer affairs president.

“Of course you couldn’t, you sycophantic little turd,” I grumbled.

Accounting president Leo Dreisdale chuckled at this, and I’m sure R&D’s Bosco Peterman would’ve too if he wasn’t so enraptured by the bouncy slut parading around on stage.

“Shut your filthy mouth, Carver,” Needley hissed, waving his Mai Tai at me. “Or I’ll shut it for you!”

“I’d like to see you try. In fact, I’m begging you.”

“That’s enough, boys,” said Chuck. “In-fighting doesn’t pay at times like these.”

“Sorry, Chuck,” said Needley. “Won’t happen again.”

“Here’s the problem as I see it,” Dreisdale offered. “There’s just too many goddamn poor people!”

“And your point is..?” I asked warily.

“Well… we have to do something about them!”

“I hope you’re not about to suggest more social programs,” Chuck grimaced. “Not if you want to keep your job.”

“Jesus, of course not!” Dreisdale said, looking offended. “I’ve been a Republican since the day I was born, Chuck. You know that.”

“Alright, alright. What are you proposing?”

“How about reservations? Like we used to do with all those filthy Indians.”

Chuck mulled it over for a moment. “You know? That’s not a bad idea, Leo. I’ll run it up the flagpole at the next Project for the New American Century get-together. Anyone else?”

“Holy shit!” Peterman shouted while slapping the table. “I’d kill my wife and kids for the chance to suck on those hooters!”

We all turned to look at the source of his distraction.

“Good eye, Bosco,” I said, nodding in agreement. “No need to kill anyone to get with her though; she works down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium every Tuesday and Thursday night. Name’s Camaro, I believe.”

“Hot damn!” Bosco said. “That girl’s going to be sorry she was ever born by the time I get through with her!”

“Alright boys,” Chuck said, rising. “Guess we should get back to the office before those middle class idiots who work for us burn the place down. And before Peterman here messes his shorts! Needley, get the tab.”

Anyhow, that was my lunch today. Pretty typical for a fat rich bastard like myself. At least until Obama takes away all our money to pay for your indigent ass’s health care. Hope you’re happy.

Though I will say that the Coast Guard might as well wear Nazi uniforms for all the interest they have in upholding our nation’s values. I’d complain, but what’s the point? This is, after all, Obama’s America.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m dying to change out of this Speedo; I’ve been wearing it for nearly 48 hours and seem to have developed a full-body rash as a result. Good night.

You know what these people had in common? No, it’s not that they were batshit insane. No, it’s not that they were lesbians (though I assume Rand was). And no, to the best of my knowledge they were not in the Ku Klux Klan.

Their common bond? They all invested heavily in gold. And if they were alive today, I’m sure they would join myself and fellow conservative icon Glenn Beck in recommending that you buy your gold from the trustworthy, stalwart Americans at Goldline International.

Why gold, you ask? What are you, stupid? Are you to tell me that you haven’t noticed that the White House has been usurped by a Kenyan-born communist who plans to socialize all private industry, so as to throw our once proud nation into a state of civil war? And that, even as I type, Islamic terrorists and the Red Chinese may very well be plotting a joint invasion of our spacious skies, amber waves of grain, and purple mountain majesties? If not, then I assume you’re either a liberal or in a coma, and therefore not worth my time.

When the hammer comes down — and it will! — how much do you think your paper money, or your stocks, or your “priceless” collection of vintage comic books are going to be worth? I’ll tell you what: not a goddamn cent. Which is why smart investors are climbing all over each other for the chance to add real gold from Goldline International to their portfolio. And by “portfolio,” I mean stockpiled in the bomb shelter between a case of Cheez Whiz and the gas masks. Because only a moron would trust socialized Obama banks.

So stop being stupid, stop being un-American, and call Goldline International at 1-877-376-2646 today for your free investor kit. And be sure to tell them Oswald Carver sent you. It won’t get you any special discount, but they might start paying me for my endorsement if enough people mention my name. Call today!

The year was 1985. I had just turned 25, my beloved Ronald Reagan was bombing the shit out of anyone who looked at us funny, and that Kenyan-born socialist dictator who currently parades around as president was probably receiving deep cover training from his al Qaeda handlers. It was a simpler time, to be sure.

As to the woman in question, her name was Karina Antoinette Bartholomew-Higgins, of the St. Barts Bartholomew-Higginses. If you’re familiar with that name then you know that she was the offspring of one of the wealthiest families in the Western hemisphere. I believe her old man, Lord Cromwell, made his fortune in pharmaceuticals and weapons development, but I can’t swear to it. I only met him twice, and he wasn’t prone to discussing business with outsiders.

But I digress. Ah, Karina! She was quite the beauty in those days, with an ass you could bounce gold doubloons off of (which I did, frequently) and tits that were perkier than a national cheerleading competition. It’s hard to say why we broke up, really. At the time, she blamed it on the whores she caught me in bed with one night, but just between you and me? I’m fairly certain that she was a lesbian.

Anyhow, the point of all this is that I recently tracked her down on Facebook,* and was quite pleased to discover that she now has more chins than a Hong Kong graveyard. Not to mention a mustache. And it looks like someone replaced her teeth with small pieces of corn. I can only imagine what happened to her world-class ass; I suspect that looking at it today would sooner summon images of P.B. Shelley’s “Ozymandias” than an erection.

At any rate, I hope my near-mistake will serve as a lesson to any lovestruck young fools considering marriage. Remember that the cow you buy will eventually wither and nauseate you, whereas the milk you get for free will always stay the same age. Assuming you can afford the good stuff, that is.

————

* Yes, I have a Facebook account. No, I won’t “friend” you. Moreover, I use a fake name so as to avoid having people like you contact me, so don’t even try.

Take this morning, for example. Suffering from a hangover that I feared might be contagious, I made a run to my nearest McDonald’s. Which isn’t very “near,” mind you; I don’t live close to poor people. At any rate, some scraggly bearded, tousle-haired freak came running up to the passenger side of my Hummer as I was waiting in the drive-thru, and had the unmitigated gall to rap his greasy knuckles against my pristine window.

Still, the lad had piqued my curiosity. I powered down the glass.

“Hey, hey mister,” he whispered furtively. “Hey, you need anything?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Why else would I be at a McDonald’s?”

“No man, I mean — you need some smoke? ‘Ludes? Got some tabs too, if that’s your thing.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “In just a year since that Kenyan-born fascist dictator took office, society has already deteriorated to the point where people of your station feel comfortable selling illegal drugs in broad daylight in the parking lots of such iconic American eateries as this? Is that what I’m to understand?”

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said nervously. Then his eyes widened with shock and fear. “Wait a second. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“No,” I assured him. “But I am a culture warrior. That said, I’ll take some Oxys if you have them.”

Which he did, and ten minutes later I was headed back to my palatial estate with a sack full of delicious Egg McMuffins and a small handful of my recreational drug of choice. The only downside is I have Obama to thank for the latter. Not that I ever would, of course. I have my limits.