“Wot wot?” Montgomery replied, sticking his head out from the pantry. “An Asian lad? You mean Kang?”

“Who?”

“Kang, guv’nor.”

“Who?”

“Your adopted son?”

“Oh, right. That Kang. Never mind then.”

“Cheerio, m’lord. And d’ye be wanting beef, chicken or fish for tonight’s repast?”

“All three,” I said. “See if you can find someway to merge them together.”

“Pardon?”

“You know. Like a turducken.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You there!” I said, walking back into the dining room. “What’s the meaning of impregnating one of the maids before galavanting off to summer camp?”

“Screw you Mister Father,” Kang hissed, flicking cigarette ash in my general direction. “Me teenage boy. Me get boners all the time. World owes me some place to put them.”

I harrumphed, but it was difficult to argue with his line of reasoning. “Be that as it may, the abortion cost $100. It will, of course, be deducted from your allowance.”

“Whatever, tubby belly man.”

“Tubby belly man?! That tears it! You go to your room this instant!”

“Good,” he said, gathering his comics and rising. “Me tired of hearing your voice anyhow.”

“Well I’m tired of you hearing it too! Now get out of here. And keep your genitals out of my maids, you freeloader!”

So it goes. Kids, eh? Oh well, that one will be 18 in a year and a half, at which point he’ll promptly find himself waiting in whatever sort of line it is that indigent foreigners wait in. As for me, I’m off to the Emporium to have my way with a hired sex partner or three. I ate a lot of Mexican today and my bowels are already feeling quite quivery, so some lucky young woman may very well receive a classic Cleveland Steamer in the near future. In fact, I would bank on it. Good night.

What can I say? I’m a busy man who works hard and plays hard. And is in fact currently hard thanks to the wonder of modern boner pills. But in the interest of keeping my fans apprised of my envy-inducing lifestyle, I’ve decided to supply you with a few choice updates:

• Quarterly reviews went smashingly down at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, and I earned a $2.7M bonus as a result. Furthermore, I called every former employee whom I fired to get that bonus just to let them know how much I’d netted from their misfortune. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much I enjoyed that.
• I’ve packed my adopted son, Kang, off to camp for the summer. Not a moment too soon, either, as it turns out that he recently impregnated one of my maids. Oh well. Boys will be boys.
• Last Thursday, I made a bowel movement so large that it actually shattered a toilet at work. Bombs away, indeed!
• I may or may not have killed another hooker. Please direct all inquiries to my legal team.

Well, I guess that’s it for now — I took the day off from work to do prescription drugs and have paid sex with trashy women, and updating this blog doesn’t qualify as either. Until next time, keep working hard for The Man.

“You there!” I said, upon discovering the source of the disturbance. “What’s the meaning of this? And how did you get up here?”

“Oh, you,” he sneered, before firing another shot at an overhead flock of birds. “Hello, Mistah Fathah. Me hope me no disturb your sleep, you fat pig!”

“‘Mistah Fathah?’” I parroted. “I don’t think I follow.”

“Ha ha, very funny Mistah Fathah!” he said after firing again. “Ho ho ho, you so rich and important you forget all about your numbah one son.”

“Son? Wait a second — you’re Kang, right? My former houseboy?”

“Former slave, you mean! Until court make you adopt me!”

“Huh, I vaguely remember something about that. Am I to understand you live here now?”

The boy gave me a serious case of the stink eye. “What game you playing, Mistah Fathah? Whatever it is, is no funny!”

“Alright, alright, simmer down. Everything going alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said, firing yet again. In the distance, I heard someone scream.

“Did you…?”

“Hit someone? I sure hope so!”

“That’s my boy,” I said approvingly, before handing him a few hundreds. “Tell you what, go treat yourself to something expensive on me.”

“Hokay, Mistah Fathah,” he said, sliding the bills into his front pocket. “Now split; me got more shooting to do.”

Well, as you can see, my relationship with Kang has never been better, even if I do forget that he exists from time to time. One thing I never forget, however, is how much I love sex with whores — two of which are waiting for me in the hot tub as I type. Later.

“Hello, mother,” I said to start the conversation.

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends on who this is.”

I sighed. “It’s me, Oswald.”

“My husband? Not likely. He’s been dead since ’81.”

“Not Oswald your husband, Oswald your oldest son. Just calling to wish you a happy Mother’s Day.”

“Well now. Isn’t this a surprise. Not a pleasant one, mind you, just surprising that you remembered to call at all.”

“Of course I remembered! How could I forget after last week’s call?”

“What call? What are you babbling on about now? I think all those drugs you take have finally destroyed your mind.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” I said, trying desperately to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantries. “Anyhow, I trust your day is going well?”

“It was until you called, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”

“Yes, well, I can’t argue with that assessment.”

“What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, nothing. Did you get the card and flowers?”

“Yeah, I got them. And what did they set you back, twenty bucks? How on earth are you going to be able to afford your mortgage when you’re throwing around money like that?”

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to survive.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me, you cheap bastard. Your brother Roderick and his wife are sending me on a cruise, and all you can come up with is some dime store card and a clump of ragweed? What the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man treats his mother this way?”

“I truly have no idea. But look, I must be going; until next year?”

“Shove it up your ass, you fat piece of shit!” she screamed, and I ended the call. Oh well. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from her at this point. After all, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If you could, perhaps my father wouldn’t have left her for that transsexual Hungarian trapeze artist.

Either way, I don’t like to waste time pondering hypotheticals; I’m more of a here-and-now kind of guy. And right now, it’s time for my weekly enema. So until tomorrow — toot toot.

“Yes?” I said, with no small amount of trepidation. Calls to my direct line rarely bring good news. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Bigshot,” said an ancient, bloodcurdling voice on the other end — one that I knew all too well.

“Jesus,” I said. “What do you want, Mother?”

“What do I want? Maybe a couple of sons who are decent enough to call me on Mother’s Day, but I suppose that’s too much to ask! Here it is, already noon, and I haven’t heard from you or Roderick yet.”

“But–”

“But nothing! At least Roderick has some excuse, what with living in California. He’s probably not even awake at this hour. But you? You should be ashamed.”

“I–”

“‘I am an ungrateful bastard,’ is that what you were about to say?”

“No–”

“‘No son should forget his mother on Mother’s Day?’ I couldn’t agree with you more! And yet here we are, with me having to call you just to hear my oldest son’s voice on this special occasion. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”

“It’s not Mother’s Day, Mother.”

“Don’t give me that, you fat tub of lard! I know what day it is!”

“Jesus Christ, woman! Go look at a goddamn calendar if you don’t believe me! It’s May 2 — Mother’s Day is on May 9. You’re a week early!”

“What? Hold on.”

Blessed silence followed, though for all too brief a period.

“Alright, I guess you’re off the hook,” she said upon her return. “But you better call next weekend. Don’t make me call you again!”

“I won’t, Mother.”

“Fine. And stop debasing our family name with all that whoring and carousing. Your father would be disgusted with the way you live!”

She hung up before I got the chance to point out that my father made me look like an amateur in those departments, but whatever. Here’s hoping your mother is saner than mine, or better still, dead. It’s really the only way to deal with such women, in my experience.

Peace out.

“How’s it hanging, bro?” he said after Cashtushy’s replacement, Mrs. Finklebaum, patched him through to my office line. “Still making the big bucks there at LCF?”

“It’s ‘hanging’ just fine, Roderick,” I said. “And of course I’m still maximizing my earning potential. Can I presume that you’re still wasting yours with that preposterous surf shop?”

“Don’t worry about me, brother man — business is booming at Wave Carvers! I don’t think I’ve ever had as many regulars as I do now; must be from all the unemployment here in Cali. People need something to fill up their days, right?”

“Yes, god forbid they find something productive to do when they could be out surfing,” I said while rolling my eyes. “Speaking of which, was there a reason for your call? Or are you just trying to help me experience the listless existence of your average California beach bum?”

“Ho ho ho, it’s always down to brass tacks with you, bro. No worries, I won’t take up much of your day. Just wondering if you wanna go fifty-fifty on a cruise for Mom this year?”

“A cruise? For that soulless harpy? Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, Mother’s Day is coming up on the 9th, bro. I thought it might be nice if we actually did something for her this year. You know, it’s gotta be a real bummer hanging around that nursing home all day…”

“Golden Oaks isn’t a ‘nursing home.’ It’s a retirement community. And a damn nice one at that. Certainly more than she deserves, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Harsh, bro. Harsh!”

“Jesus. Stop talking to me like I just shorted you on a drug deal, Roderick. You know as well as I do that she made our lives a veritable hell while we were growing up. Not to mention forcing dad into the arms of that transvestite Hungarian trapeze artist…”

“Yeah, that was kind of a bummer, man. Alright, no problem. Like I said, just wanted to see if you were interested. Me and Rach’ll cover the cost, no worries.”

“Oh? Won’t that cut into your marijuana allowance?”

“Nah, we grow our own. It’s practically legal out here, bro! You should come visit some time.”

“I’d sooner volunteer for an al Qaeda beheading video than set foot in that socialist state of yours. In the meantime, I have work to do.”

“Alright. See you at Thanksgiving?”

I sighed morosely. “I suppose so. Please give my regards to Rachel and the kids.”

“You got it, bro! Laters!”

I shook my head sadly as I hung up the phone, reflecting on the numerous ways in which Roderick had squandered his life. Oh well, I suppose every family has to have a black sheep or two to make the others shine all the brighter. Speaking of which, time for me to get out of here — it’s two-for-one night down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium, and I don’t want to be late for the Presentation of the Whores. Peace out.

“Does this mean we can go home?” asked one of the girls.

“Oh Jesus I hope so,” said another. “Last night was terrifying.”

“Half of you are free to leave,” I said. “The uglier ones. The rest of you stay put; I’m not done with you yet.”

Making my way downstairs, I threw open a set of French doors to the pool area… only to be greeted by a scene straight out of Enter the Dragon. Dozens of martial artists were practicing in lockstep with each other, while my former houseboy, Kang — now my adopted son — watched from the vantage point of the pool’s lifeguard station.

“Yes, yes!” he cried, prosthetic hook hand glinting as he raised it high. “Me turn you into raised fists of vengeance, soldier boys! Faster! Faster! With conviction!”

“Now see here, Kang!” I barked as I approached him. “It’s Sunday goddamn morning — what have I told you about loud noises before noon on the weekends?”

“Oh, you,” he said, not even bothering to disguise his disdain. “So sorry, Mistah Fathah. Hell forgive me for keeping your fat ass from getting sleep with foolproof plan to take over the world!”

“Take over the world? With rejects from the Cobra Kai dojo? You must be mad.”

“Yes, me mad! Mad at you! Or did you forget… this!?!” he screamed, waving his hook hand in my face.

“Jesus, get over it,” I said. “That happened, what, two months ago? You can’t live in the past, Kang.”

“Asshole!” he said. “Anyhow, lack of Playboy TV on bedroom cable box not in past, Mistah Fathah. Still happening now!”

“I’ll ask Montgomery to take care of that for you. Now tell your friends to go home, then get inside and do your homework.”

“Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“And lose the attitude! Just thank your lucky stars that I’m not one of those superstitious halfwit parents who make their children go to church on Sundays!”

“Hokay, hokay. What about Saturdays? Me can run martial arts academy then?”

“Whatever. Just so long as it’s in the afternoon. I work hard to provide for this family, and I’m entitled to my rest on the weekends.”

“Hokay. Me sorry, Mistah Fathah.”

Now that his squeaky wheel has been greased, I’m headed back to my bedroom where I plan to gobble down a handful of boner pills and treat the remaining whores to some very demeaning sex. As to Kang’s increasingly troublesome attitude problem, I suppose that I’ll just write it off to hormones. Maybe I’ll start taking him to two-for-one night at Pete’s Poontang Emporium; god knows it did wonders for my angst when I was his age. In the meantime, peace out.

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.

Some aides escorted me into what they referred to as “the isolation chamber” shortly after my arrival at McCain’s top-secret reelection compound. The Senator was sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back to the door, making strange whirring noises as he methodically rubbed his time-ravaged head.

Not wishing to embarrass him any further, I coughed loudly to announce my presence. He jumped up in a rather feeble-looking fighting stance, fixing me with a confused stare.

“Oz?” he said, slowly lowering his arms. “Is that really you?”

“Of course. Who else would it be?”

“But… no. It can’t be. You’re dead, man! I went to your funeral in ’81! Jesus! Am I losing my goddamn mind?!”

“I assure you I’m not dead. You must be thinking of my father.”

“Your father..?” he muttered, then flashed a death’s-head grin as recognition struck him. “Oh. Oh! Ozzy! You’re Ozzy, right?”

I grimaced and gave a curt nod. “Technically, yes. Though no one has called me ‘Ozzy’ since I was 13. ‘Oz’ will do nicely. Or, if you prefer, ‘Mr. Carver.’”

“Geez. Ozzy. After all these years…” he said, smiling dreamily. “How’ve you been? How’s your mom?”

“It’s ‘Oz,’ Senator. And my mother is… hmm. She’s alive.”

“That’s great to hear. Great. So, what brings you to Arizona? Don’t mean to sound rude, but I hope it’s not just to catch up. I really have my hands full these days with that J.D. Hayworth asshole breathing down my neck.”

“Well, no. I’m here to help with your reelection bid. Remember? You called yesterday.”

“I did?”

“It was either you or an uncanny impersonator.”

“But I… I thought I called your dad.”

“Senator. My father’s dead.”

“He is? When did that happen?”

“Back in ’81. You went to the funeral.”

“Aw, Jesus! That man was like a brother to me!” he screamed. He kicked the floor savagely and screamed again. “Motherfucker! I think I just broke my foot!”

At that moment, a squad of burly Secret Service agents rushed into the room with their weapons drawn. The following minutes were quite tense; I was wrestled to the ground and Macca was spirited away to parts unknown. Once everyone had settled down, I was instructed to return to my hotel until further notice — an order that I gladly accepted.

Honestly, I’m not sure that I’ll go back even if they do call. I feel as if I’ve already suffered enough abuse for one day, and it seems that McCain is going to need a lot more than support from professional talking heads like me if he hopes to retain his Senate seat. I guess I’ll play it by ear.

Either way, they’re here till Saturday. Which means the next three days are going to suck long, and they will suck hard. The only saving grace is that Roderick’s oldest daughter, Tabitha, is developing quite nicely. But get your minds out of the gutter. I don’t want to perform coitus on the lass. I just want to ogle her a bit. No crime in that, friends.

For christ’s sake. Mother just shit herself, spoiling my fine Corinthian leather sofa in the process. When is that woman going to die and stop making my life a living hell? Oh well; time for me to rouse the houseboy. Hell, you don’t expect me to clean it up, do you? After all, I have company to entertain.