Not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned. For one thing, no one involved with the reelection campaign was able to point me in the direction of a decent whorehouse — a completely unacceptable situation in which to find oneself.

For another, I lost my stash of OxyContin at some point during the night, and my usual connection, Skynyrd Dave, was unwilling to fly in for a resupply mission. Given that I’m in a constant state of pain, this simply would not do. No, really. Pain all the time. Honest. Stop looking at me like that, goddammit.

Anyhow, I’m now comfortably ensconced in the first class section of an Airbus A380, quaffing Old Fashioneds and enjoying the amazing view. And by “view” I mean “perky young stewardesses,” who are going to give me a priapism if they’re not careful. Hopefully one of them will be willing to provide emergency medical treatment if it comes to that. It is, after all, a five-hour flight, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want a man’s death on their conscience. Wink wink nudge nudge, eh?

Good evening, my fellow Americans. I have a question for all of you. I want to know:

How many people here like to take a taste of alcohol?

[Loud cheering.]

Alright. I know it’s so infernally goddamn hot in this state that you always need something to cool you off. There must be some people out there who like to drink tequila, am I right?

[More cheering. A few guns are fired into the air. It was later reported that one of the bullets, upon returning to Earth, inadvertently killed an 87-year-old WWII veteran two miles away.]

Okay, simmer down. I was talking to the Senator backstage before, and he was telling me that a lot of you people like to drink vodka and orange juice.

[Still more cheering. Someone is heard screaming, "You're ripping off Paul Stanley's intro to 'Cold Gin' from Alive!, asshole!"]

But let me tell you something: when you’re down in the dumps, and Christian Talibaners are trying to take over your state, and you need something to bring you up, there’s only one thing that’s going to do it the way you want it:

OxyContin!

[Audience silence.]

Wait. I mean: John Sidney McCain!

[Spattered clapping.]

Yes. For us, there are only two possibilities: either we remain true Republicans or we come under the thumb of the Christian Right. This latter must not occur; even if we are small, we are a force. A well-organized group can conquer a strong enemy. If we stick close together and keep bringing in new people, we will be victorious over Jesus freaks like J.D. Hayworth!

[Mixture of cheers and boos. Someone is heard screaming, "Now you're ripping off Hitler, you fat Nazi pig!"]

Now then, a special question for the ladies: who wants to get pregnant? Though bear in mind that I have no intention of paying child support if you do.

[Extended booing. A menagerie of objects are thrown at the stage as Carver is forcibly removed by McCain reelection staffers. End transcript.]

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.

Seriously, how do people live like this? I think I’ve lost five pounds in sweat since my flight touched down. Good thing I brought a handle of Bombay Sapphire in my carry-on bag, or I fear I’d be dead of dehydration. Moreover, I’ve already been approached by three wild-eyed zombies who attempted to sell me large quantities of crystal meth. As if anyone needs high octane stimulants in such an environment.

Uh-oh. Hate to cut this short, but my handlers just arrived to whisk me away to the Senator’s top-secret campaign headquarters for a briefing. I’ll update as my schedule and this infernal heat allows.

The point is, you’re probably up to speed on the in-party challenge that maverick G.O.P. senator John McCain is facing in Arizona, courtesy of Christian Talibaner J.D. Hayworth. Furthermore, you’re no doubt aware that Macca recently brought in some big names to stump for him, including Mitt Romney, Fred Thompson and Jeb Bush, and that he’s working on deals with the unstoppable one-two punch of Hank Williams, Jr. and Ted Nugent.

Well, as of this morning, you can add one more name to that illustrious list: Oswald Jameson Carver III. The senator has enlisted my aid, and I’ll be heading to the Grand Canyon State tomorrow morning to help him drum up some votes.

Not that I have any real affection for the old buzzard — losing G.O.P. presidential candidates make me sick to my considerable stomach. Especially when they get beat by Kenyan-born socialist dictators. But he and my late father were longtime drinking buddies, so I suppose I feel some sense of family obligation in that regard. It doesn’t hurt that he’s flying me down on a private jet and paying a very handsome “speaking fee,” either.

Anyhow, I’ll try to update from the road, but don’t count on it. I tend to forget myself when I’m out of town, and this might be my last chance to take care of one of the final items on my bucket list: stomping the living shit out of notorious Hells Angels poster child Ralph “Sonny” Barger, who apparently resides in Cave Creek. We’ll see.