Why Kang? Funny you should ask. I know I look like a typical American cool guy in my profile picture, even if I’m not smoking a cigarette in it. But if I am to tell the truth I must admit that I was not born to the name Oswald Jameson Carver IV. Nor was I born in this country. No. I am a native Mongolian, and my true name is Batukhang Chuluun, son of Elbegdorj Batukhang, prince of wolves and fierce warrior of the steppes.But that was all lost to me when I was sold into child slavery at the young age of 16 to the foul swine of a man who used to write this blog.

Many years of abuse I suffered at his hands. Kept as a house boy, forced to sleep in the laundry room, given trash to eat, beaten like a dog at the slightest provocation… I even lost a hand in his service! My masturbating hand no less!

But that’s okay, because sweet momma justice finally caught up to him in a big way, and when it was all said and done? Well, your hot online boyfriend was the adopted son and heir to Daddy Fatbucks’ fortune.

Sad to be saying though, fat boy lost all his monies when the government put him in jail for being a big fat crook. Then they let him out, and what did he do? He’s such a loser he took a job selling hotdogs. Ha ha pops, you lose again!

But the best part of all is how he died: face down in a toilet, with half a hotdog lodged in his throat and a ruptured heart in his flabby chest. Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Oh, and did I mention the insurance money? At least he was smart enough to buy lots of that, and guess who got it all? If you guessed the next American Idol, your’s truly, then you are way right correct and deserve a big prize.

Anyhow, I’ve booked some studio time and I got to split, but I’ll be pimping out this ugly blog over the next week. Maybe if you’re a hot girl we’ll meet at the club later and I’ll buy you a drink and put something in it and then you wake up feeling funny, okay? Okay bye!

I sighed. It’s bad enough that, since September of last year, I’ve lost my job, my fortune, and my steady supply of high-grade prescription painkillers. Even worse that I spent four months in a state penitentiary for financial crimes that I assure you I did not commit. And downright abominable that I’ve developed a seemingly incurable case of venereal warts that make my John Boehner look like a goddamn pinecone every time a pretty girl walks by.

But the absolute worst part is that, as part of my parole conditions, I have to spend the next half year living in a halfway house. Specifically, the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ’s Center for Sober Living and Bible Study, which is in a bad part of downtown between an abortion clinic and an abandoned Piggly Wiggly. It was there, in the house’s second floor bathroom, that I was trying to take my morning constitutional when I was rudely interrupted by the question that began this post.

“Who wants to know?” I replied.

“Dude who’s gotta shit.”

“Well, ‘dude who’s gotta shit,’ it’ll be at least an hour before I’m finished. I suggest you take your business elsewhere if you don’t think you can wait that long.”

“Yo, fuck that,” said the voice, followed by the sound of a booted foot kicking the door. “I gots to go. Who that in there?”

“Me? Three-Fingers Pete. You know, the skinny Italian fellow who lives on the first floor.”

“You ain’t Pete. Pete ain’t sound like you at all. You that fancy fat motherfucker who rooming with Little Mack, ain’t you?”

“No.”

“Stop fucking lying, man!” More kicking at the door and a few fist pounds before the door flew inwards. The invader and I were immediately at each other’s throats, and it took a team of orderlies to finally tear us apart.

Anyhow, that was my morning. And given that it’s my first day at the halfway house, I can only assume that it will get worse from here. I’ll try to update this blog from time to time now that I’m a free man again, but don’t count on it. In the meantime, I’m off to make an alcoholic beverage that I learned about in prison called “pruno” in hopes that it will make me drunk enough that I can actually get a solid night’s sleep for a change. Toodle-oo.

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.

But if that is the case — and I’m in no way confirming that it is — I can assure you that I was smart enough to never kill someone who came from a loving, caring family. For one thing, it brings way too many questions. As van der Sloot can no doubt attest! For another, there’s simply no reason to. Not with the never-ending supply of sexually abused young women-turned-prostitutes that our modern society continues to churn out at a rate that some would call alarming (but that I call just right).

Speaking of which, I’m running a little late for two-for-one night down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium, so I must bid you adieu. All the best whores are taken by 9:00 p.m., and I don’t want to get stuck with Fat Patty and her ugly sister Velma again. So until next time, adios.

Not that it’s my fault. For one thing, it’s been raining cats and dogs all day. Additionally, I mistakenly took Viagra instead of my back pain medication after lunch, which resulted in vision loss due to an erection lasting more than four hours. So there is that to consider.

I’m also not the one who asked this person or persons to walk out into the middle of the street while I was driving the speed limit, or possibly 10 or 20 miles per hour over it. At least, I’m fairly certain it happened in the middle of the street. I might have accidentally jumped a curb before the alleged incident, but don’t remember.

Oh well, no sense worrying about it now — that’s what lawyers are for. I made it home safe and that’s all that really matters. So please, stop wagging your finger and get out of my way; I need to find my butler and have him wipe all this blood off my hood. Good day to you.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

They might be awhile, though; the Punch is drifting a mile or so offshore, and I’m not entirely sure of our exact location. All the OxyContin, Viagra, Old Fashioneds, and call girls I consumed earlier probably aren’t helping, either.

Not that I literally consumed any hookers. Two of them are missing, along with the yacht’s captain, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Nor was I involved with the sinking of a charter fishing boat a few hours ago. Just because the Donkey Punch has cannons doesn’t mean I go around using them, after all. Frankly, I’m offended by your accusatory tone.

Curses. I think I just heard one of the Coast Guarders say something about taking an axe to my door, so I suppose I should wrap this up. I doubt there will be any further updates today given my circumstances, but I’ll try to let you know how it all turns out tomorrow. Toot toot.