Greetings, fellow patriots. I realize it’s been awhile since I last took to my soapbox to pummel you with my high-powered brand of truth, justice and the American Way, but that’s no skin off my ass. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in the top 1 percent of the 1 percent, and believe me when I say that people as wealthy as me could give two strokes of a dead cat’s cock about people as slovenly and destitute as you. C’est la vie.
Besides which, I’m not here to offer apologies or explanations. No. Rather, I’m here to regale you with news of a telephone call that I just received from my close, personal friend Hank Williams Jr. As is usually the case on weekday mornings, I was in the dining room enjoying a meager repast when my butler Montgomery apprised me of the intrusion.
“Pip pip, guv’nor!” he exclaimed, carrying one of my several solid-gold house phones on a sterling-silver tray. “Telephone for you!”
I shoveled a forkful of bacon into my gaping maw and fixed him with my best no-nonsense glare. “Telephone?” I said. “At this hour? This had better be good.” After wiping my hand on Monty’s lapels, I lifted the handset off the cradle and barked: “Carver here. What’s the meaning of this?”
“Oz?” said the familiar voice on the other end. “Hey son, this is ol’ Randall Hank! What’s happening, man?”
“Hank! Good to hear from you, old friend. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hell son, just wanted to call up and wish you a happy anniversary!”
“Anniversary?” I said, panicking. “What do you mean, ‘anniversary?’ Anniversary of what? Is this about the Tijuana whore who claims we got married during my last trip south of the border? I can assure you she’s lying. Nor do I have any half-Mexican bastard children running around, blood tests be damned.”
“Haw! That’s a good one, son! Naw, I’m talking about that there little blog of yours. Eight years as of today, ain’t it?”
“Blog? What blog?”
“Oz’s Funhouse, son!”
“Oz’s Fun…? Oh shit, right. My blog. Thanks for the reminder.”
“No problem, son! Hey, I’d love to stay and chat, but ol’ Randall Hank’s got himself a heap o’ troubles! Got ketchup on my blue jeans, I just burned my hand — I tell you, it’s hard to be a bachelor man! Catch you later, buddy!”
Good old Hank. That reminder really was fortuitous, too, because I forgot all about this blog months ago, and a perfunctory renewing of the copyright was long overdue. Take note, IP vultures — everything here is well-protected under law, and I’d relish the opportunity to sic my team of high-powered attorneys on pathetic scumbags like you. Selah.
Front page Hank Williams Jr. photo source: Wikipedia