Friday, December 23, 2016

December 23, 2016

Dear Diary,

It's getting near the end of the year and to be honest, I'm dreading the countdown to the new year.  I know it's wrong, but I can't stand the thought that Carrot Head is going to ascend the throne take office in less than a month and that brings me no joy.  Sure, there's more than a little residual bitterness knowing that all the money the Foundation spent on the Armani pants suits is money down the drain.  But this goes much deeper than that.

I worry about the peasants country. For example, I'm concerned that Carrot Head has no idea of what he's getting into with the Russians.  That Putin is not what everyone thinks he is, believe me.  Out of all those Democrats and Republicans who ran against me, none have ever actually looked Vladimir in the eye.  Well, I have. Lots of times.  And if they think he's just one of the guys, they've got a big surprise coming.

I remember at one of our state dinners, Putin was eating soup -- I'm pretty sure it was chicken noodle soup -- and he not only used the wrong spoon, he actually couldn't feel that one little noodle had curled over his lower lip.  It just stayed there while he continued to make jokes and slurp his broth.  Of course, nobody dared say anything, because you know, they could have gotten shot right then and there.  And of course, Barack was of no help whatsoever, but then he never is. He just sat there and pretended that everything was hunky dory like he always does.

I have to be honest here, I'm very disappointed in Barack. I think he's the real reason why I lost the you-know-what.  I know he doesn't like me.  And he REALLY doesn't like Bill.  But that's how it is with those people: you give them their big break and then they get all uppity and forget who helped them.  Let's face it, if it hadn't been for Bill and me (and maybe Teddy Kennedy, but he's dead), Barack would probably still be in Chicago hustling community car washes to raise money for that horrible church that hates white people.  Have you ever heard how he completely changes his speech habits depending on who he's talking to?  One minute he's in front of black people, slinging it like one of the boys from the hood and the next, he's orating to white people like William fucking Buckley.  The nerve.  And nobody calls him on it, because of you-know-what.

Dear diary, only you can know how much I disliked the Obamas.  They never invited us over for dinner unless there were a thousand photographers around.  That Michelle is so obnoxious, too.  At that same chicken noodle soup dinner, we were seated across from each other and all she could do was blabber on about how she knows Oprah personally and how much I needed to work on my triceps, because that's the only way you can wear sleeveless tops after forty.

Christmas is approaching.  They say the holiday season is the roughest. But I am determined to claw my way back into the sunshine.  With heart, courage and an ample supply of Prozac, Dr. Morell believes I can do it.  I will do it!

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