Thursday, June 16, 2011

Mea Culpa

I took my shirt off for a camera. If you were forty-six years old and had pecs like mine, you wouldn’t? The underwear picture? Mine, too, all mine. I admit it. I did it. And, excuse the language, I don’t see what the big fucking deal is.

Uh huh, I also had sex with her. The reports say it happened only once: the campaign had been intense, it was late at night, we were drunk, we regretted it afterward, blah, blah, blah. Well, I’m here to tell you, we did it dozens of times. Dozens of dozens. My aides are handing out a press release listing dates, times, and places – to the best of my recollection. I’m not being evasive; some of the sex was so mind-blowing, I don’t remember the details. We’re talking brain-cell-killing orgasms. Especially during that weekend at Hilton Head when we were hopped up on coke and ecstasy.

I’m interested in nothing if not full disclosure. So, if you’ll look at page two, you’ll see the names of the other girls and women I’ve had sex with, starting at age fifteen, before I got married, before the good people of this state elected me to office, and before I had pecs to die for. The names of the twins who appear in Item Eleven are in quotation marks because, frankly, they were transvestites. For Items Thirty-one to Thirty-four, please refer to the weekend in Hilton Head.

Have you done it in the back of a limo between campaign speeches? You should. Have you done it with a Hoboken hooker ten minutes before a National Conference of Mayors meeting? I mean, in a hotel room right upstairs from the conference room? I mean, as Rahm and Bloomberg and those guys are starting to assemble below you? I’m talking, just feet away. Inches. Well, the thought of it is putting a swell in my Jockeys right now. No pictures, please. Just kidding.

As for the rumors of underage sex, I declare unequivocally that I did nothing illegal. At least not in Italy. Where the age of consent is fourteen. And while it’s true that this incident occurred at a Sheraton Hotel in Pennsylvania, she said her name was Angelina, which I believe is an Italian name.

I stand today accused of abusing my power. I deny it. We were consenting adults. Except for Angelina. I stand accused of lewd and unseemly behavior. I deny it, too – with the exceptions of the twins and Hilton Head. I stand accused by my political enemies – men who are jealous of my rock-hard pecs and women who wish they could rub their fingers raw on my washboards – of lowering the dignity of my office. I say, Who are you kidding?

Thank you. I’ll be taking no questions. Except from you – in the back, with the librarian’s glasses and the little black skirt.

(By Michael Wiley)

<><><><><><><><>

A Bad Night's Sleep releases on June 21. I promise to keep my shirt on if you pick up a copy.






2 comments:

Vicki Lane said...

Thanks for the morning chuckle!

Michael Wiley said...

Thanks for reading, Vicki. I think that I'm glad that this story seems to be mostly over. Until the next revelations from the next public figure.