Friday, August 4, 2017

August 4, 2017

Dear Diary,

Dr. Morell just left, so if I nod off while writing this, it's only because I had him double up the Xanax today. With all the talk I've heard about pointless investigations, I've been a little nervous lately. After all, once everyone gets bored with chasing Carrot Head, it's only a matter of time until they dig up the bodies I've buried it's someone else's turn in the barrel, if you get my drift.

Not that I really have anything to worry about. I'm pretty good at covering my tracks being discrete. Like when I was Secretary of State and went number two, I wouldn't always wash my hands after wiping, just to see if I could get away with it. It was easy if I used enough paper, but sometimes my finger would slip and go where angels fear to tread. If it passed the sniff test, I just flushed and left, but if I was feeling really frisky, I'd just shake hands with whatever diplomat I met next. I'm certain the French ones suspected something, but the ones from Pakistan never said a word, because hygiene isn't exactly at the top of their list. Plus, they also knew one step out of line meant no more F-15s.

I think a lot of people misunderstand the word"investigation." Just because someone is investigating you doesn't mean you're guilty of anything. It just means they're trying to distract everyone so that they don't notice you're not doing your real job get more information in order to make life better for the peasants Americans. We used to launch all kinds of investigations about all kinds of important things, like the heartbeat rates of shrimp. Nobody knew why we were investigating, but just the fact we were investigating made them think it was important. We used to hold "closed door meetings," which was code for "we're ordering in for Chinese food."

But here's what has me worried:

Even though the loudmouths special prosecutors are on a wild goose chase with investigating Carrot Head, it's only a matter of time until they dig up a corpse or two some kind of evidence linking me to something, when all I ever did was order a few people killed maybe not answer the phone one night. Or maybe something about the Clinton Foundation. I don't know, but I do know this much:

Somewhere out there is a dead stripper in a ditch. And Bill isn't nearly as careful as I am.

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