Didja Miss Me?

After a long hiatus—which is Latin for “rehab”—I have returned to bring you more great stuff on even more great stuff.

Before you start judging me about the whole rehab thing, please know that I started out innocently enough on assignment working undercover for an upcoming series I will be doing on the life and times of Charlie Sheen. To keep my cover, I had to do some pretty awful things involving drugs, goddesses, hot tubs, sex orgies, and something called a “Thai basket.” I hated every minute of it, but sometimes a writer has to bite the bullet and do things he wouldn’t normally do—and I don’t normally do that kind of stuff unless at least one of the goddesses is a bisexual redhead. But I sucked it up and went through with it having indiscriminate sex with a never-ending string of blondes and brunettes—yuck!

But after several months of snorting drugs and being treated like a sex toy, I was one hot mess and the judge ordered me to check into drug rehab where I roomed with this Lindsay Lohan chick who happens to be a bisexual redhead.

From there, I went directly to sex rehab to battle that horrible disease known as sex addiction. For those of you unfamiliar with sex addiction, it has to do with an uncontrollable desire of members of the male species to put their penises inside members of the female species. This is also known as “normal male behavior.”

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, my marriage nearly crumbled when one of the steps from sex rehab required that I come clean and tell my wife about the 14-year-old son I had fathered with the maid. I’m not sure if my wife was more pissed that I knocked up another woman or that we never actually had a maid—which would have been nice for my wife—but either way, I was in deep shit.

But not as deep as poor Donald Trump who was finally found in a compound in Pakistan, shot in the hair by baby seals, and buried at sea. So I guess things could have been a lot worse for me.

Then came the news we were all gonna die! Luckily there were some minor miscalculations and The Rapture isn’t coming until October. Whew! Dodged a bullet there.

But the stress of the past few months was definitely taking its toll and unable to deal with any more of it, I decided it was time to call an end to this writing gig and say goodbye to my many fans. But naturally that didn’t go well either. The very day I had targeted for my spectacular, star-studded, y’all-are-gonna-miss-me celebration at the United Center in Chicago turned out to be the exact same day Oprah had the place booked for her spectacular, star-studded, y’all-are-gonna-miss-me celebration. I should have known something was up when my best friend Gayle King said she had “another engagement” that day. Turned out just about all the others I planned to invite to my spectacular, star-studded, y’all-are-gonna-miss-me celebration had something else going on that day. The only person I could get a commitment from was Maria Roth—and that was only if I paid her way. With the cost of gas and a room at Motel 8, I had to call off the whole thing. I love Maria, but really, I’m not made of money.

So finally I’ve decided to get back to observing and writing so I can make gas and motel money for my many friends in case I ever get the urge to retire again. And what better time is there to start observing and writing than right now? It’s officially stupid season in America and I’m happy to see my political wet dream of a Sarah Palin/Michele Bachmann Republican ticket is still alive. Sexy Sarah has started a bus tour to show America that she’s just another working stiff with a reality TV show who’s mother to a single-mom teen daughter with a reality TV show. And my belle Michele has announced that she will make a future announcement of a possible announcement of whether or not she will announce a run for president.

It just couldn’t get any better than that!

Unless of course if Sarah and Michele were bisexual redheads.

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4 thoughts on “Didja Miss Me?”

  1. Silly me! I thought “stupid season” was all year long. I mean, how else can we humor writers find our subjects?

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