Spent the day in bed, putting the finishing touches on my State of the Union speech. Oh, I know I'm not really going to deliver it, but Dr. Morell says that as long as I continue to live in a fantasy world, I might as well do something productive. Chel was over earlier today, arranging all my stuffed animals at the foot of the bed, where they're all sitting up straight, waiting for the big moment. I had her put the Beanie Babies up front, because they're short. I named the littlest chipmunk Robert Reich and the Howdy Doody puppet Tim Kaine.
Chel was so sweet about the whole thing. Her eyes were brimming with tears when she handed me the yellow plastic gavel, telling me that everything's going to be okay. I know everything is going to be okay! Who does that little shit think I am? I conquered most of Europe and would have remained Empress if it weren't for Waterloo. Jesus. The nerve!
I feel so important when I hold my little plastic yellow gavel! It reminds me of
I was thinking of starting out the speech with a joke, like, "What has four feet and says, "Ho-dee-doe! Ho-dee-doe?'" but then Bill took all the air out of my sails by reminding everyone of how I always blow the punch line. He's probably right. The last time I tried to tell it, I started it by asking, "How do two
I never really cared for Al. I liked him better when he was fat. We'd swap all kinds of really good jokes and he didn't take himself so seriously. One time, when we were burying his tax delinquencies over at the IRS, we had lunch, where he must have put away six Big Macs plus a super-sized order of fries. That man ate with a shovel! Then I think he had one of those operations where they stick an inflatable balloon in your tummy or rip out half of your intestine, because now he's all wrinkled and skinny and grouchy as hell. I haven't heard from Al in months.
Come to think of it, I haven't heard from Jesse Jackson, either . He isn't looking too good these days, since they sent his son to the looney bin. I wonder if he has any good openers.