Monday, December 26, 2016

December 26, 2016

Dear Diary,

I'm not getting out of bed today.  It's Monday.  And not just any kind of Monday.  This is the kind of Monday that I hate, because it's one of those fake holidays where nobody shows up for work.  There's nothing to do, because this year, Christmas was on a Sunday, which means everyone -- and I mean EVERYONE -- gets the following Monday off, even though there's no REAL holiday.  No mail.  No banks open.  Nothing.  Such slackers!  When I was Secretary of State, you sure didn't see me taking any time off.  If I had to travel to some ass-backward kingdom of heathens, you can bet I slept on the plane, even if it meant my chefs had to custom prepare my lunch or I had to recline the first class seat myself or tip the chauffeur at the airport myself.  Sometimes, I didn't even expense it.

But you can't find good working people these days.  Believe me, I know.  It saddens me that entire states like Wisconsin simply don't understand that.  I never liked Wisconsin, because all they ever talk about there is cheese and football.  Cheese, cheese, cheese. Ugh!  Whenever I'd visit as Bill's Number Two, all those cheese heads ever did was greet me with stupid jokes about cheese (and something called Packers that I never figured out): "Is that Gouda nuff for you?" they'd laugh and then offer me so much cheese and crackers that I got all constipated and couldn't take a real dump for at least a week afterward, which I must confess, made me quite irritable.

I'll tell you, dear diary, because even Dr. Morell doesn't know: there's only one place I ever like to go, and that's California.  I know I was a senator from New York and blah, blah, blah, but if you're going to party, there's nothing even close to partying with rich, good-looking people and California has way more than its share.  Too bad it's not as white as it used to be.

I remember one time in Beverly Hills, when George Clooney tented in his whole backyard and lured in at least 300 suckers and invited at least 300 guests, all of whom dropped wads of cash into a trash bag that I had the boys from Secret Service guard, because of possible theft (Hollywood is run by the Jews, so a girl has to be careful with her mad money).  Everywhere I looked, all the beautiful people were gliding around like swans, but I made sure none of them under the $100,000 donation mark ever got closer than twenty feet.  Dr. Morell says that's a good indication that there are still a few shreds of self-worth rummaging around in my "evil soul" (he's such a joker) and that a girl can't simply give herself away.

I have to say that Clooney was every bit as gracious as he could be, offering his place for the shakedown fundraiser, but to be honest, dear diary, I was somewhat less than impressed with George himself.  In fact, I have to say that in person, he was something of a disappointment.  Even I have to admit that he has a gorgeous face with big, brown eyes.  And he has a warm, gentle voice that probably gets young girls all wet and squirmy. But in real life, he's kind of fat from the waist down.  Real thunder thighs, which I was NOT prepared for.  And when he came out of the house to be received greet me, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and surfer jams with holes in them -- in his BARE FEET, with the nastiest looking toes that looked as if they hadn't been washed in years.  There was all this blackish, grimy stuff wedged into his cuticles.  Gross.

I took one look and whispered to Huma, "What's with this Clooney guy -- where does he think we are, Wisconsin?"  Huma just shushed me and said for me not to rock the boat, because he was married to an arab woman, too, who just might come in handy when we sell Tel Aviv to the Saudis.  No matter, we made a ton of money, because you can sell Californians just about anything.  I mean, the average donation was $50,000 and the meal was only about $13.50, so even if you add in the cost of the band and the tents, we probably raked in a hefty 96% profit.

I miss those days.  But all that's in a dream and, as Dr. Morell insists, that dream is over.  Today, all I have is you, dear diary, and the hope that the post office brings me something, anything, tomorrow.

Assuming those slackers don't use their sick days to stretch Christmas and New Years into a two week vacation.  I hate when they do that.

Subscribe for each day's entry by Email!