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.

Nazi Germany. Seig Heil!

Oh well. Probably for the best if handing it over to China was the only viable option. Still, I feel like “Chaz” Bono just kneed me in the groin in a misguided attempt to make me her girlfriend. And it leaves unanswered the question of what I’ll be driving once I’m ready for a new luxury SUV later this year.

I suppose I could switch to an Escalade, but nothing says “screw you and your tree-hugging ways, you bearded, patchouli-smelling freaks” like rolling large in an American-made juggernaut named after a sex act. Take the 2009 model I currently drive. That fat bastard gets less than eight miles to the gallon. Eight! And frankly, I find it to be too fuel efficient. I kept hoping the Hummer engineers would find some way to cut it down to about one mile to the gallon, but I guess that dream is now as dead as the line itself.

That tears it. Time to head over to Madame Ching’s House of Exotic Massage and vent my frustration on some of their Mao-loving employees. Better hope your sister’s not working there tonight — it’s going to get ugly.