Tuesday, January 31, 2017

January 31, 2017

Dear Diary,

Things are beginning to settle down around here.  At least, I think they are.  For some reason, Bessie gave me only two of the green pills with my oatmeal this morning, which must mean we're out of the blue ones. Either that, or Dr. Morell forgot to refill the prescription. No matter, I greeted the morning with a degree of clarity I haven't enjoyed since the night of the you-know-what.

Well, not that exact night, because I was three sheets to the wind for most of it.  Podesta kept pouring me doubles. But I definitely remember the night before the you-know-what.  I was sharp as a razor that night.  I remember, because I'd just ripped three new assholes into been reviewing the vice-presidential debate with Tim Kaine, giving him pointers on how not to fuck things up to improve his public presentations when he became the Number Two man.  Obviously, that had no effect.  I hear he has a day job working as a Howdy-Doody male stripper at bachelorette parties now. Good for him.

Speaking of number two, I have to admit that since the Clinton Foundation has closed down, we've really had to tighten the old financial belt around Chez Clinton.  Bill and I have had to reign in the expenses, which for the first time in decades includes sharing a bathroom.  Bill tried to put a brave face on things, telling me that it would be "just like it was when we were first married," but I have to tell you, that was no picnic.  Back then, he'd purposely not flush and then would come running into the living room, all pleased with himself and yelling about how I just had to come look at the poop he made that looked just like Abraham Lincoln.

Can you believe that? Ugh.  SO gross.

What's wrong with men?  Why do they think poop jokes are so funny? Why can't they be funny like women are?  You know, nothing cracks me up more than a 75 year old woman marching down main Street wearing a vagina hat and carrying a "This pussy grabs back" sign.  There's an example of real irony at work.  But poop is just poop.  I just don't get it.

Bill, of course, still thinks it's hilarious. In fact, he even insisted that the Secret Service man assigned to inspect the bathroom be named John.  Jesus, how stupid is that.  About twice a week, you can hear Bill calling to him from the kitchen as he's making his rounds, yelling "I wouldn't go in there, John!  I just dropped a major bomb!"

Of course, John has to laugh -- he's a government employee.  I just hold it in until Bill leaves for the day.  That reminds me.  I have to tell Bessie to buy more Air Wicks.

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