Freditorial
As I sit here, the monotonous blitzziacato of thoughts keep dripping on my soggy over-saturated brain like some sort of Chinese water cooler with Hong Kong flu on a hot buggy day, or is it night? I glance up with my well-healed eyeballs at the broken mirror with the 7 year itch that has scratched my name with her diamond's best friend, ROTIDERF. My stomach churns like a Roto-rooter on steroids caressing the rhizomed linings of the Congressional sewer, over-stuffed with typical governmental programs long flushed away by the Republican laxatives we elected to ruin things. Suddenly the phone rang. I answered it with the relish of a 7th inning hot dog stretched in the sun to suicide limits. It was my old pal Judge "Believe Everybody For $45,000,000 And Still Counting" Starr.
He asked me if I'd like to get wired and probe the 'Monica Matter'. I learned long ago never to discuss drugs on the phone, especially with a megalomaniacal magistrate backed up with the whole Republican Guard and ready to bomb me back to Saddam knows where. But I was curious, yellow as I am, so I asked him to explain. He told me there was a leak in the White House that was soaking the public more than Spots scenting the Reagan drapery, and that he thought it inappropriate to call in the usual plumbers, as they tended to leave Cuban cigar butts and Scotch Tape in the most inopportune places and were even more costly to hush-up than I was. He asked if I'd go out on a date with Janet Reno, (a woman so unattractive that even old Bill Clinton, himself, refuses to hug or call over to the White House at 2:00 AM to discuss intern matters), get her drunk on cheap tequila, and make wild naked jungle love to her while cranked up on special governmental rhinoceros stimulants developed by the CIA for Jack Kennedy. Starr would broadcast it all live on CNN and said he could guarantee me the highest ratings since OJ's Bronco ride split-screened the State of the Union and get me a permanent guest spot on Oprah. I'm as horny as the next patriotic Joe who'll flag anything for the sake of Old Glory but this was going way beyond my 3 Mile Island limits. I apologized, and bailed out explaining that I had to finish this magazine before my self-imposed deadline resurrected itself and became my cross to bear. Starr told me to keep my mouth shut as no one would believe me anyway, not even him. I had to agree, and hung up the phone. Then it struck me like a hot fist on a cold staff. By doing nothing, I had done my patriotic duty after all. I had out Republicaned the Republicans by following their leads. I waited for Ed McMahon to knock on my door with the $45,000,000 check.
The knock woke me up. I opened my eyes from the broken dreams reflected in the crack of dawn glimmering on the old mirror and there sprawled across my smiling face were the righted letters I'll happily wear for yet another issue: FREDITOR.