It was an especially frigid weekend on Mount Winchester, with temperatures dropping into the teens and the snowfall reaching approximately three feet. The solarium, as it often does during the harshness of February, cracked under the weight of snow, endangering Roger's seven prize orchids and nearly freezing our beloved cat, Mr. Hitchens. Of course, we didn't leave the house, but thanks to the Orange Alert, we had ample bottled water and tinned sea bass. I would have spent the weekend drinking wine, but I've vowed not to consume any French products until those Vichy cowards bow down to the noble dogs of war. A collective ass saved twice, apparently, does not evince gratitude from a nation of weaklings.

Anyway, one of the unfortunate side effects of this brutal winter has been my high heating bills. Though many of you continue to purchase Beneath The Axis Of Evil, sales haven't kept pace with expenses, and I'm so broke that I must consider dropping my subscription to The Weekly Standard. In general, I don't know where the money's coming from. It's been weeks since I've received a paid assignment. Also, I recently socked 100 grand into an untouchable defense-industry mutual fund that will support Peggy, my clone baby, through graduate school and beyond.

Thank goodness, then, that the government has earmarked $300 million for programs to promote marriage. My previous marriages, to Janeane Garofalo and the actress Claire Bloom, both ended in attempted murder. A third, conducted at the American consulate in La Paz, was nullified immediately upon my landing in Miami. But I think I'm ready to try again. For $500,000. For my country.

Last night, I summoned Roger to my study.

"You rang, sir?" he said.

"Yes, Roger," I said. "Did you iron my undershorts?"

"Indeed."

"Have you cleaned Mr. Hitchens' box?"

"Of course."

"Where's my Kahlua milkshake?"

"Right here, sir."

"Excellent," I said. "Roger?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I've decided to seek a wife."

Roger dropped his tray, shattering my milkshake glass.

"What's the matter with you, man?" I said.

"Nothing, sir," he said. "It's just my palsy. I haven't been able to get to the pharmacy due to the snow."

"I see," I said. "Well, I've decided to seek federal marriage-experiment funding. I need someone to marry."

"Are you sure, sir?" he said. "That business with Janeane Garafalo didn't work out so well."

"Yes, dammit!" I said. "Peggy needs a mother."

"I'm Peggy's mother," Roger mumbled.

"What did you say?"

"I said that yes, sir, Peggy needs a mother."

"That's what I thought. So I need your help. You must assemble 20 women, all young, poor, and ready for marriage. You must tell them nothing about me, other than I'm eligible and stunningly handsome and will gladly rescue them from a life of welfare dependency. Then you must gather them at the house for a weekend. I'll fuck them all, one at a time. Then I'll fuck them all two at a time. Afterward, I'll teach the ten finalists French and make them read Montaigne in the original. The five who write the best essays will participate in an orgy with me."

"That sounds wonderful, sir," Roger said.

"In the end, it will be down to three women, and I'll pick the winning name from a hat."

"Very good."

"Then you and I will teach that winning woman what it means to be a lady. We'll give her lessons in conservative philosophy, parasol twirling, and proper English."

"Sir," Roger said. "That's preposterous!"

"So preposterous," I said, "That it just might work! We'll make a lady out of a humble street urchin. Now round me up some candidates! You have two weeks!"

"Yes, sir," Roger said.

"And Roger?"

"Sir?"

"Make sure there are some black chicks in the mix."

"Black chicks," Roger said. "Very good, sir."

My goodness, this is going to be fun!

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