“Cashtushy, call the police!” I barked as I approached my personal secretary’s station. “We’ve been invaded by pygmies — and most of them are albinos!”

“What?”

“What nothing! I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that there are few things more deadly than an albino pygmy. They’re deadshots with those poisoned blowguns!”

“Calm down, Mr. Carver,” she said, taking the hat and coat from my trembling hands. She then explained the situation to me, adding: “Didn’t you recently adopt a boy? Where is he today?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Oh, I just thought…”

“Well, stop thinking. And if you’re done with the stupid questions, I’ll be in my office. Don’t you dare let any of these brats through that door!”

I managed to get a little peace and quiet for the next hour. Unfortunately, my reverie was then shattered by a loud knock.

The timing couldn’t have been any worse, either, given that I was just about to spend some quality time with covert webcam footage of Cashtushy in the ladies room. Don’t ask how I procured it; a wizard never reveals his secrets.

“Who is it, goddammit!” I shouted, zipping up my pants. “Can’t a man get any work done around here?”

The door flew open and my idiot vice president, Sherm Schweinbumser, stuck his head in.

“Sorry boss,” he said. “I was just wondering if you had time to meet my boys?”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, Schweinbumser? Give me one good reason why I would want to spend a moment more than I have to with you, much less your idiot…”

It was then that I noticed two younger, smaller versions of Schweinbumser were also peeking in, both faces plastered with looks of confusion, shock, and sorrow.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Fine. Come in.”

Thirty minutes later, the four of us strolled out of my office. Cashtushy was looking at me approvingly as I ushered the Schweinbumsers out. At least, until she heard what I was saying.

“…and that, boys, is where babies come from. I hope you found it to be enlightening.”

“But why did she have poop on her face?” asked Schweinbumser’s oldest son, whose name I certainly don’t remember.

“Tut tut,” I said. “Save any questions for your old man; I wouldn’t want to steal his thunder any more than I already have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to lunch.”

Schweinbumser leaned in as I prepared to make my escape, whispering, “Jesus, Oz. I really wish you hadn’t shown them that.”

“Yes, well, I really wish you hadn’t brought them into my office,” I whispered back. “Now get back to work!”

Probably no surprise, but I decided to call it a day at that point and have been throwing dollar bills at naked women down at Boobs-a-Poppin’ ever since. Sure, the drinks are overpriced and the strippers hate me, but at least I never have to worry about seeing any children when I’m at this club. Though I suppose the odd 17-year-old wouldn’t be any trouble.

Jesus, relax. That’s legal in most countries. Even some parts of the Deep South for that matter. Anyhow, you’ll have to excuse me — DeMenthe is about to take the stage and I don’t plan on missing a moment of her routine for the sake of entertaining you. Au revoir.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, my lead attorney, Buzz Goldenrod, was there to guide me through the process.

“Ha ha!” Kang said, as he stepped out of the limo, prosthetic hook hand glinting in the morning sun. “The shoe has turned, Mistah Boss! Or should me say, ‘Mistah Dad!’”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Don’t call me that.”

“But you is! You my numbah one big daddy now, Mistah Dad!”

The SOCFS representatives gasped in shock as I lunged at the smart-mouthed welp.

“Now Oz…” Buzz said, holding me back.

“What?” I said, pulling away. “I was just going to give my sohh… my sohhhh… the boy a hug.”

“But you just told Batukhang–” This was said by one of the SOCFS reps, a woman no less.

“Who?” I said.

“Batukhang Chuluun Carver? Your son?”

“Oh. You mean Kang.”

She fixed me with a steely gaze. “Regardless of his nickname, Mr. Carver, you just told him to not call you ‘dad.’ Hardly a loving start to this arrangement.”

“What? Nonsense,” I said. “I was simply explaining that he doesn’t need to call me ‘Mistah Dad.’ ‘Dad’ will do nicely. Or, if he prefers, ‘father.’”

“Hokay, Mistah Fathah,” Kang said shrugging. He grabbed his bags out of the limo and started towards the house. “Me be in living room watching Hannah Montana until you give me room. And no laundry room this time, you fat pig!”

That, more or less, was that. There were of course the expected barrage of papers to sign and preposterous agreements to comply with, and by the time the smoke had cleared I was in possession of an unwanted child. Unlike your common unwed mother-to-be, however, abortion isn’t an option in my case.

Oh well. At least in a mansion as expansive as mine, I should be able to go weeks at a time without having to see the lad. Plus, I can shunt off the bulk of the parenting responsibilities to my butler, Montgomery; a very common arrangement in the circles in which I travel. And if things get too tense, there’s always boarding school.

Anyhow, I have to split — Pete’s Poontang Emporium is sending over a four-pack of whores to help me unwind, so I need to gobble down some Viagra and get into my Speedo before they show up. Enjoy your day.

Fortunately, my butler Montgomery takes care of most of the heavy lifting on the first two, and is also in charge of canned responses. You know, a short-and-sweet form letter that offers thanks for the writer’s continued support. However, going forward, the cream of each month’s crop will receive personalized responses from yours truly. We’ll start things off with some selected missives from March 2010:

Dear Oz–

I simply cannot say enough good things about Oz’s Funhouse. What an inspiration! I’ve been in the punditry game since ’84 and I’ve seen a lot of challengers come and go in that time, but none have inspired as much awe and jealousy in me as you do. Talk about talent on loan from God! Please keep up the good work; our nation needs your keen insights and staunch patriotism now more than ever.

Best,

R.L.

P.S. How do you get around those silly “doctor shopping” statutes? I’d love to know your secret.

Consider it done, R.L. Though the liberal drive-by media would like nothing more than to see me disappear, you have my word that I’ll be around for a long time. As for “doctor shopping,” I’m not sure what you mean. All of my medications are prescribed by a licensed M.D., though I do sometimes find it necessary to supplement them with the help of some secondary market entrepreneurs. I suggest you hit up Craigslist if you’re not getting everything you need from the medical community.

Dear Big Sexy,

Most men who have known me biblically seem to think my vagina is like sandpaper, but it gushes like a waterfall every time I read your blog. Hope to run into you at a Tea Party rally soon.

xoxoxox,

A.C.

Thanks, and totally understandable. However, if “A.C.” stands for “Ann Coulter,” bear in mind that I don’t sleep with transvestite skeletons.

Dear Mister Carver,

My mommy and daddy say you are a righteous man who does good work for our country. Does this mean you know Jesus? Can you get me his autograph?

Your friend,

Timmy (Age 6)

Might as well ask me if I can get autographs from Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny while you’re at it, Timmy. I hope your parents are proud of the fact that they’re raising an idiot. That said, one of my gardeners is named Jesus (pronounced “Hay-zeus”) and I can certainly get you his autograph if you’re interested and promise to stop being an asshole.

Okay, I guess that’s it for this month. Keep the letters coming!

“Oz? Buzz. Listen. About this Batukhang Chuluun situation…”

“Who?”

“Your former houseboy.”

“Oh, you mean Kang.”

“Right, whatever. Look, I think we can settle with him.”

“Really,” I said warily. I try to avoid settlements whenever possible, as they’re always seen as a tacit admission of guilt. Just ask Michael Jackson’s menagerie of doe-eyed young boys if you don’t believe me. “And how much are his attorneys asking for in terms of a ‘settlement,’ hmm?”

“Well… nothing. No monetary sum. Beyond his legal fees, at least.”

“Huh. I have to admit, I’m surprised at how reasonable that sounds. What’s the catch?”

There was a brief period of near-silence on his end, during which I could’ve sworn I heard faint snorting sounds.

“Umm… sniff sniff… yes. There is a small catch.”

“I knew it. Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Are you doing cocaine?”

More snorting sounds, followed by: “Don’t be ridiculous. I never touch that stuff.”

“Okay. But it really sounds like you’re doing cocaine.”

“Listen… sniff sniff. I have allergies. Do you want to hear the catch, or do you just want to insult my character?”

“Fine. What’s the catch?”

“The catch is, they’re willing to drop all charges if…”

I waited until the pause had become more than uncomfortable. “If what?”

“If… hold on.”

“Sweet Jesus, man. Pull yourself together.”

“Sorry, nose bleed. Oh, right: if you’re willing to adopt Chuluun and make him your primary heir.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Hey, don’t blame me — they’re the ones who came up with the offer. Though I would advise that it’ll probably be cheaper and easier in the long run. I’ve seen the evidence they have against you, and it’s not pretty.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Strangely, it occurred to me that this is how the girls at Pete’s Poontang Emporium must feel when they realize they need to sleep with me to keep their job. “How long do we have to give them a decision?”

“End of the week. Sniff.”

“Fine. I’ll call you Thursday night. And Buzz?”

“Yes?”

“Much more poor legal advice like this and I’ll be looking for new representation!”

“Yeah, good luck with all that. Talk to you later.”

Goddamn that Goldenrod. And goddamn Kang! Oh well, no sense in worrying about it now. Especially given that happy hour just started at Boobs-a-Poppin’, and there’s no better way to turn a frown upside down than by burying it in a pair of stripper hooters. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Don’t get me wrong; I hate the middle class. Absolutely despise them. They’re dirty, uneducated, have horrible taste, and invariably smell bad. But they are good for two things: being easily duped on election day, and a willingness to work their entire lives for men like me, only to wind up with nothing while I retire on the lap of luxury.

I’ll tell you one thing, though — those middle class kids are the spitting image of Yule, mustache and all. No wonder he gave them his house. Yule always was a big softie

“What the hell is going on here?” I barked at them, causing a few to instantly scatter.

“We’re playing hopscotch Mister Carver,” one of the remaining brats explained. I think it was Bendemix’s daughter, but to be honest all children look alike to me. Just a bunch of hairless chimpanzees in midget clothes, crawling with disease and snot.

“Hopscotch? I don’t see any goddamn scotch. I see a lot of goddamn kids trespassing on my goddamn property! Now beat it, you little shits! Get the hell out of here before I eat you all for dinner!”

Beat it they did, leaving me to some well-deserved peace and quiet. Sure, there’ll be the usual round of angry phone calls later tonight. So what. As you may have noticed, I rather enjoy confrontations.

“Who the hell mows their lawn this early?” asked Trixie, the whore who was in bed with me at the time.

“A very sorry individual, if I have anything to say about it,” I said. I threw on a robe and stormed out into the cruel light of day. My new neighbor, Greg Bendemix, was tearing it up like nobody’s business on the back of a high-powered riding lawnmower.

“Bendemix! Bendemix!!” I shouted, getting his attention. He shut down the mower and walked towards me.

“Morning Oz,” he said with an easy grin. “What’s cooking?”

“Cut the shit, Bendemix. What’s the big idea, mowing your lawn at 8:30 in the morning?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry about that. Wanted to get it done before me and Marsha take the kids to church. You know, so I can watch the rest of the draft later.”

“Church?! Listen shithead, next time you inconvenience me so you can go bow to some pagan god, I’m dousing gasoline all over this lawn of yours, got it? Then I’m driving down to your stupid little church, taking a nice, fat dump on the altar, and using the run-off to sign your name to the deed. Do we have an understanding?!?“

I guess my message got through, ’cause Bendemix went white as a ghost and nodded. One of his kids had come outside to watch the exchange, and was now bawling in the doorway. I smiled.

“Besides, what kind of welfare recipient doesn’t have a lawn service in this day and age? Stop being so tightfisted and put some deserving Mexicans to work, you cheap bastard.”

With that, I went back inside and enjoyed a rigorous session with Trixie. Then, while Bendemix and his family were off at church, I severed the cable line leading to their house. Where’s his Jesus now, hmm? Where is his Jesus now?

This was a dumpy, middle-aged woman, presumably the mother of the young boy I had in a half-Nelson. We were standing in the dairy aisle of my local grocery store.

“Giving this brat a long-overdue lesson in manners,” I replied, landing another sharp blow across the back of the child’s head. Then, to the boy: “That’ll teach you to call attention to my girth, you little shit!”

Next thing I know I’m being dragged away by a squad of cops and booked on some trumped up child endangerment charges. My attorney will quickly deal with that nonsense, but you can bet that kid will never forget the feel of my fist on his noggin. Especially when you consider how fat I am.