Today I am using the blog I have been writing since announcing my candidacy for the office of the POTUS to defend myself against the vile, untrue, erroneous, fallacious, distorted, inaccurate, concocted, fabricated, invented, and just downright false accusations that my political competitors have hurled against me.
Unlike those competitors, including several of my fellow columnists, most of the regulars at the Hôtel Cherokee Watering Hole, and, not least, the strategists of the two major political parties of this great nation, I am, have always been, and will always be, an honorable man who (a) consistently tells the truth and, like my role model, George Washington, (b) never tells a lie.
As anyone who knows me well, including my deceased friend and Platonic lover friend Betty Bedwell (1960-2006), will swear or attest on a stack of all the sacred literature the great prophets have penned under the influence of divine inspiration, I am a man of my word.
These are my words:
I did not have sex with Ms. Bedwell on the night of her decease! Nor did I have anything to do with her passing on to her next life as a Buddhist monk. Though she was found dead in my bed, I swear before God, the gods, the fairies, nymphs, and all such invisible entities, dead or alive, that I did everything in my limited, robotic power to revive her from whatever it was the coroner of Small Southwestern City found to be the cause of her death.
I also apologize to Ms. Bedwell’s husbands, past or present, for any pain I might have caused them by her untimely demise.
What is more, any and/or all statements I might or might not have made concerning any possible part I might or might not have had regarding her tragic passing were made either (a) in jest or (b) under the influence of the teaspoon of rotgut that the bartender of the aforementioned bar mistakenly or mischievously poured over the burnt cerebral cortex that has stood me in good stead ever since my late wife Lydia, or whatever she was called, had me cremated.
It was, at most, an accident. (I refer to the aforementioned demise of that great lady, Ms. or Mrs. Bedwell, who was, incidentally, planning to stand by my side as I accepted the nomination for President of these United States under the much-abused, ragged, semi-incinerated flag of the Dead Rights Party.)
Besides, she probably, or possibly, deserved her fate.
Let me restate the above paragraph. Betty Bedwell had, as her life’s prime goal, a transmigration into the chubby, saffron-robed body of a Buddhist monk. And, as a serious student of the great religions of the world, I am now at liberty to reveal that she attained that goal. As my private and esteemed psychic, Signore Mentore, revealed in a recent séance, “I hear her loud and clear.” [Translation mine.]
I now consider the case closed. After my sentencing later this month, I plan to follow the advice and pleadings of my many devotees and continue to seek the highest office in the solar system in the year 2016.
I will take no more questions.
Unlike those competitors, including several of my fellow columnists, most of the regulars at the Hôtel Cherokee Watering Hole, and, not least, the strategists of the two major political parties of this great nation, I am, have always been, and will always be, an honorable man who (a) consistently tells the truth and, like my role model, George Washington, (b) never tells a lie.
As anyone who knows me well, including my deceased friend and Platonic lover friend Betty Bedwell (1960-2006), will swear or attest on a stack of all the sacred literature the great prophets have penned under the influence of divine inspiration, I am a man of my word.
These are my words:
I did not have sex with Ms. Bedwell on the night of her decease! Nor did I have anything to do with her passing on to her next life as a Buddhist monk. Though she was found dead in my bed, I swear before God, the gods, the fairies, nymphs, and all such invisible entities, dead or alive, that I did everything in my limited, robotic power to revive her from whatever it was the coroner of Small Southwestern City found to be the cause of her death.
I also apologize to Ms. Bedwell’s husbands, past or present, for any pain I might have caused them by her untimely demise.
What is more, any and/or all statements I might or might not have made concerning any possible part I might or might not have had regarding her tragic passing were made either (a) in jest or (b) under the influence of the teaspoon of rotgut that the bartender of the aforementioned bar mistakenly or mischievously poured over the burnt cerebral cortex that has stood me in good stead ever since my late wife Lydia, or whatever she was called, had me cremated.
It was, at most, an accident. (I refer to the aforementioned demise of that great lady, Ms. or Mrs. Bedwell, who was, incidentally, planning to stand by my side as I accepted the nomination for President of these United States under the much-abused, ragged, semi-incinerated flag of the Dead Rights Party.)
Besides, she probably, or possibly, deserved her fate.
Let me restate the above paragraph. Betty Bedwell had, as her life’s prime goal, a transmigration into the chubby, saffron-robed body of a Buddhist monk. And, as a serious student of the great religions of the world, I am now at liberty to reveal that she attained that goal. As my private and esteemed psychic, Signore Mentore, revealed in a recent séance, “I hear her loud and clear.” [Translation mine.]
I now consider the case closed. After my sentencing later this month, I plan to follow the advice and pleadings of my many devotees and continue to seek the highest office in the solar system in the year 2016.
I will take no more questions.
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