Saturday, June 24, 2017

June 24, 2017

Dear Diary,

Boy, it sure feels like summer now. Last night was so hot that I kicked off the covers and had to ask Bessie to loosen the belts on the straitjacket. Even at midnight, I was sweating like a whore in church, which kept me awake the rest of the night, thinking about this whole climate change thing.

Last year, all through the you-know-what, everyone who didn't want to get killed my staff assured me that the planet's climate really was changing. They kept telling me that 97%  of thousands of scientists agree that the world temperature was rising because of man-made things like cars, factories and even methane produced by cow farts.  I thought the cow fart thing was a little over the top, but if all that beef on the hoof is anything like Bill after a few beers and tacos, I'm not going to dismiss that theory out of hand. Last Super Bowl, nobody in the living room could breathe without lighting a match every five minutes.

Ever since the you-know-what, I just don't trust science as much as I used to. These are the same kind of knuckleheads whose "research" indicated I didn't have to visit Pennsylvania or Wisconsin and that "Michigan wouldn't be any problem." Now they're telling me the earth is heating up, but that I can't use my air conditioner because it enlarges my carbon footprint?  This makes very suspicious. It also makes me very uncomfortable, because too much sweat makes my bottom stick to the rubber doughnut.

Back in the good old days, we all used to fly into Davos in our private jets meet with rich campaign donors other world leaders to discuss global warming.  Well, we didn't spend all that much time on climate change, per sé. Most of the time, we were involved with other issues, like collecting checks from arabs world poverty and making sure abortion clinics stayed open during Christmas no child ever went hungry.

You know who never goes hungry? Al Gore. He makes a ton of dough off the whole global climate gambit.  He's just about the only who can afford a private jet now, because he sold his TV network to the arabs for a zillion dollars. Also, he divorced that whiny Tipper, so he's living La Vida Loca while everyone else is scratching it out for cash. Turns out he was a lot smarter than we thought.

Fat, but smart.

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