Sunday, January 1, 2017

January 1, 2017

Dear Diary,

There was just no way I was going to be able to get out for New Years Eve this year, so I decided to make the best of it by doubling up on the Thorazine and staying home in bed.  Even Dr. Morell agreed that it was too soon for me to be out in public, where those bastards the press would just continue to badger me with their pesky questions.  Here it is, the start of a brand new year and they just can't let go of the old news: compromised e-mails, deaths in Benghazi -- what difference does it make?  I say the past is the past.  It's a new year.  Time to look ahead at new beginnings with fresh eyes,  Dr. Morell agrees.  At least I think he agrees, It was hard to hear him on the phone over the party noise at Mar a Lago.

It's times like this I get a little more philosophical, dear diary.  I think back to my childhood, drinking egg nog and singing songs and feeling a bit groggy from all that egg nog.  I vaguely remember my father zipping up his pants and telling me that another year had come and gone and that his little girl was becoming quite a little lady.  I recall his memory fondly, along with the New Years Cards we'd get from our friends and family, most of which had old Father Time being chased across the cover by Baby New Year.  Everyone loved the Baby New Year, but even though his beard was long and gray, I always loved old Father Time more.  I always wanted him to love me, too.  But nothing I ever did was ever good enough.

Around 10 PM, something very odd happened.  As you know, dear diary, I hate surprises. So I was somewhat on guard when Bessie announced that "a white man who looked older than Father Time hisself" was in the hallway, wanting to wish me a happy New Year.  By this time, the Thorazine had kicked in and my vision was a little blurry, so I put on my extra thick glasses, brushed my hair, sprayed some Binaca and sat up in bed and told her to show him in.

Whoever he was, Bessie (or Jemima, I'm not sure who was working that night) introduced him as Jimmy someone.  It might have been Cartwright, although he didn't look like anyone I remembered from the Ponderosa.  He was old, alright. He was so old that every time he blinked a tiny cloud of dust blew off his face. He shuffled over to my bedside and said hello, looking me up and down and shaking his head.  Suddenly, I didn't feel so good with this hundred year old cadaver leering at me like the ghost of Christmas Past.

The silence was getting noticeable, so I asked him who he was and what he was doing here.  He just smiled and said he had a calling from Jesus, telling him to come see me and deliver a message of hope.  He said there comes a time in our lives when our service to others takes a different direction, moving from public office to more meaningful pursuits, like building homes for the poor and boycotting Israel.  Then he reached his hand out to mine, which I thought was very sweet, until I realized he was waiting for me to write a check for whatever charity he was hawking.  I think it was Hamsters for Humanity, but I just lied and told him my secretary handles that stuff.

Jimmy just smiled and said, "You see, that's the difference between you and me, Mrs. Clinton."

"What?" I asked. "That you're a better person than me?"

"No," he whispered as he turned for the door, "...that I won and you fucking lost."

I won't lie, dear diary.  That one left a major bruise.

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