The Help.

My life-partner, The Greek, recently informed me that she's knocked up. With twins.

I think it was never more aptly put than by the old Southern African-American lady who said, "Sweet Jesus, prop us up."

This revelation occasioned a sort of epiphany during which I realized that I'm screwed like a housecat.

However, fearless and selfless Republic-defending heroic type that I am, the thought of changing my name, getting plastic surgery, liquidating my accounts, funneling the money through untraceable offshore accounts in both Switzerland and the Caymans, purchasing property in Nome, Alaska, and living out the rest of my life in terrified anonymity in my own self-imposed Witness Protection Program never crossed my mind. Not for a minute.

No. Not even once. 

No, instead, I decided that I'd better look into getting some extra help around Palmerwood. Two children--even two such adorably rambunctious little poppets as Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J.--I can handle. Four's a different ballgame.

So it was that the precious little Palmer imps and I found ourselves dressed in our Sunday-go-t'-meetin' best in the magnificent, awe-inspiring, oak-panelled, suit of armor- and ancient family oil portrait-studded entrance hall of Palmerwood, ready to greet... whom? Whom? Whom were we awaiting??

 Why, it's dear old Nanny Klagg, the nice lady the agency sent over! With all the extra help we'll need around the place with two more Palmerlets, Nanny Klagg might be just the ticket. 

Well, I was just tickled by dear old Nanny Klagg. She seems like something straight out of some British Victorian novel. Why, she's an old dear!

The children, however, didn't seem to agree. Nor did Cubbings. Nor did the yetis lurking outside. But dear old Nanny Klagg just sipped her Earl Grey from one of the Palmerwood antique museum-quality Sèvres bone china teacups and chuckled in her dear old creaky, drafty old voice, "Don't worry a bit about it, Mister Palmer. I'm sure we'll all be the best of friends in no time."

Nobody seemed convinced of this but me, but hell, I pay the damned bills around here.

Feeling every confidence in dear old Nanny Klagg to get the situation well in hand, I made ready to leave for work and was just on my way out the door to defend the Republic we all hold so dear when the children accosted me.

"Precisely where the hell do you think YOU'RE going?" shrieked Intrepid Stella A. "You're not leaving us with HER?"

"Pop, not her," begged Young Leo J. "Pop, this woman has no sex appeal at all. None."

"The two of you shut your mouths," I retorted. "Young Leo J., if you recall the matter of the two 19-year-old Swedish au pairs, Daddy's American Express card, Daddy's G-4, and the week you three spent at the Sands Casino in Macau, you'll understand why I hired an old bat well past her breeding years. Now you two be good, mind dear old Nanny Klagg, and don't bother your mother. Daddy will be back soon. The damned Republic we all hold so dear isn't going to defend itself."

And off I went. 

Well! It wasn't but a minute after I left that dear old Nanny Klagg set about confirming the children's suspicions. The door had hardly closed behind my tauntaun when she decided to clear out the clutter in the nursery.

"Precisely where the HELL do you think you're going with THOSE?" demanded Intrepid Stella A.

"Language, my dear," Nanny Klagg creaked. "Little ladies don't talk like longshoremen, do they? We're going to have to clean up that mouth. Then we'll do something with that hair and make you look like a proper little lady. And I don't think children need weapons like these. I'll just pop down to the armory and return these to that nice Mr. Dailey and that nice Mr. Miller."

"Lady, you thought WRONG," yells Young Leo J. "You don't get it. This is PALMERWOOD."

The children weren't the only denizens of Palmerwood whom Nanny Klagg antagonized in short order. No sooner had she denuded the nursery of assault rifles, grenade launchers, katanas, broadswords, harpoon guns, Stinger missiles, and handguns than she set about denuding the yetis.

"They smell like wet wolfhound," she said, and fired up the Braun clippers.

Now, JP has suffered the depredations of yetis for years. Years. Their low-down, nouveau-riche, cigar-swipin', Scotch-cadgin', quail-stuffed-with-wild-boar-and-fennel-sausage-gobblin', capercaillie-in-white-wine-and-truffle-sauce-snarfin' ways have been a thorn in his side for quite some time now. But he'll be the first to admit that that there is something absolutely heart-rendingly pathetic about a shorn yeti.

Politics makes for strange bedfellows, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. At least temporarily. Nanny Klagg's presence has forged an alliance between forces which, until now, had been the bitterest of rivals and the most implacable of enemies.

A sinister, candlelit conclave takes place in the old barn.

"Look at us!" Young Leo J. snarls. "She pomaded my hair and put me in this fruity Little Lord Fauntleroy get-up. Death to her. DEATH."

"Quit whining," Intrepid Stella A. growls. "Look at me. I'm in a &$%ing PINAFORE, for Christ's sake. I look like Anne of Green $%@&ing Gables."

Both the staff and the estate's most terrifying monsters--the yetis, the zombies, the giant squid, and the children--agree to put aside their differences. Even Cubbings and Executive Chef Bechamel de Bouillabaisse, who have despised each other for decades, agree to bury the hatchet...for now.

Chef de Bouillabaisse, infuriated by Nanny Klagg's disdain for his vichyssoise, agrees to stop trying to make calamari out of the Giant Squid (infuriated by Nanny Klagg's plans to drain "that malarial swamp," as she refers to beautiful Palm Lake). The yetis agree to stop raiding Chef de Bouillabaisse's kitchen and wine-cellar. Cubbings agrees to stop chasing the yetis out of the mansion. The yetis agree to stop swiping the zombies' arms and legs to use as croquet mallets.

The zombies just kind of stand there and groan. They don't know much, but they know they don't like Nanny Klagg, either.

Led by Intrepid Stella A., the warring factions take a blood oath of secrecy and loyalty: DEATH TO NANNY KLAGG.

As inspiring as taking the oath of murder and mayhem was, sobriety sets in quicky. My children, having spent their formative years in the company of zombies, yetis, chupacabras, werewolves, vampires, attack-trained birds of prey, and their father, are deeply realistic. Fearsome though the entities gathered around this table may be, they recognize that Nanny Klagg is a formidable adversary.

And so they decide to call in reinforcements. They employ a little-known and poorly understood psychic phenomenon known as Creepy Little Kid Telepathy to reach out across the ether and summon the most dastardly and dangerous entities possible. What, or whom, could they possibly be reaching out to across the psychic airwaves? What terrifying forces are they attempting to contact on the astral plane???

Friends of mine will know that I am, of course, highly skeptical about the supernatural. Ghosts. Telekinesis. Chi. Karma. Angels. ESP. The Lord. All that stuff I'm pretty sketchy about.

Nonetheless, I can't deny that something very strange indeed happened when Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. employed Creepy Little Kid Telepathy (CLKT) (tm) to call for help in their struggle against dear old Nanny Klagg.

The newest Palmers, all veiny and slimy and gross, were minding their own business, floating serenely and quietly in amniotic goo. Suddenly, an urgent psychic request awakens them! Their eyes open! Expensive liquor, Cuban tobacco, and old Palmer family portraits mysteriously appear in the ol' "bag of waters," as the OBGYN rather grossly referred to it!

"Well, well," the freshest Palmers grin sinisterly, "We don't really understand concepts like 'good' and 'evil' yet, but it appears we'll soon have the chance to cause mayhem and chaos! Sit tight, siblings. This withered old Klagg bag doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell."