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Sunday, March 28, 2004 :::
Well, Girls... time to hunker down.

As you know, we suspended this journal due to a security breach, and your mother's delicate condition. But we have business to discuss. And the tech boys assure me this server is now secure.

So brace yourselves:

Your mother's pussy-licking novel has reared its ugly head again.

Those Canadian cocksuckers at Signet who own the New American Library imprints are republishing "Sisters."

Which means three things:

1) Since the publishers are foreign, we can expect the little bastards to try to hide behind the Canadian Constitution or somesuch. We'll have to be resourceful.
2) We can expect a little more controversy and attention from the press, especially about your muff-diving.
3) Those theatre faggots who call themselves "The Lynne Cheney Players" -- and who probably got the ball rolling on this new deal -- are American. So they can expect a Dick Massage to remember.

For now, Mario has put your mother back in restraints until the sedatives and the Zovirax take hold.

Hold fast. Keep the faith. And don't grant any interviews, or we're changing the will.

Big time.


::: posted by VPOTUS at 7:13 AM

Friday, June 13, 2003 :::
Hey, Girls. Daddy here.

It's been a busy few weeks. And unfortunately, this WMD thing is trying to go major-league.

Just so you know what I'm dealing with, every knob polisher in the executive branch is floating ideas to keep this small-scale.

Even POTUS. I don't know what to tell him about this one. He says we should leak this letter -- slightly edited by POTUS himself, purely as a matter of emphasis -- to establish the fact that "there are a lot of crooked Nigerians out there."

Here it is. What do I say to him this time? (I'm reluctant to get into the whole Niger/Nigeria thing with him again.)


Dear Sir,

REQUEST FOR URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP First, I must solicit your strictest confidence in this transaction. This is by virtue of its nature as being utterly confidential and 'top secret'. You have been recommended by an associate who assured me in confidence of your ability and reliability to prosecute a transaction of great magnitude involving WEPPONS OF MASS DISTRUCTION requiring maximum confidence.

We are top officials of the Federal Government Contract Review Panel who are interested in importation of KICKASS URANIUM YELLOW CAKE into Your country with funds which are presently trapped in Nigeria. In order to commence this business we solicit your assistance to enable us transfer into your account the said trapped funds.

The source of this fund is as follows: During the last Military Regime here in Nigeria, the Government officials set up companies and awarded themselves contracts which were grossly over- invoiced in various ministries, BUT HAD NOTHIN TO DO WITH HALLIEBERTON. The present government set up a Contract Review Panel and we have identified a lot of inflated contract funds which are presently floating in the Central Bank Of Nigeria ready for payment BUT HAD NOTHIN TO DO WITH HALLIEBERTON. However, by virtue of our position as civil servants and members of this panel, we cannot acquire this money in our names. I have therefore, been delegated by my other colleagues in the panel to look for an overseas partner into whose account we would transfer the sum of US$21,500,000.00 [Twenty-One Million, Five Hundred Thousand U.S Dollars].

Hence we are writing you this letter. We have agreed to share the money thus: 1. 20% for the account owner you 2. 70% for us [ Myself and other members of my panel ]

3. 10% to be used in settling taxation and all local and foreign expenses direct or incidental to the execution of this transaction.


We are looking forward to doing this business with you and solicit your confidentiality in this transaction.

Please acknowledge the receipt of this letter using the above Email address. I will bring you into the complete picture of this HUGE STASH OF PRIMO URANIUM YELLOWCAKE when I have heard from you.


Remember this is a Deal so treat with utmost confidentiality. Yours

Chief Bello Osagie

::: posted by VPOTUS at 11:05 AM

Thursday, May 15, 2003 :::
All's well, girls. Your mother is on the mend now; sores are quickly drying up....

Had a near miss in Indianapolis. Some minor-league asshole at "WISH-TV" Channel 8 had the temerity to report that the POTUS' organizers asked audience members to take off their neckties.

It was a simple enough request: Since POTUS was talking about tax cuts, we wanted to meme that it was all about the working man. Ties are wrong for that image, so everyone in the background of the photo op was asked to take theirs off.

Then we wanted each and every good Indiana Republican to hold up a replica of The Clenis™. For emphasis.

Think of it: All those men without neckties. Each of them holding aloft a life-size copy of Clinton's Penis.

Nothing underscores the necessity for action like The Clenis™.

That, at least, was Karl's idea -- but someone failed to notice that each of 5000 specially ordered Clenises™ had a "Made In China" sticker until it was almost too late. So scrub that. Could have been awkward, especially with a tattletale in the house.

Right now a certain "Jim Shella" at WISH-TV is looking at a little shiatsu to help him learn that discretion is the better part of patriotism.

We'll make sure all the good puppy press is wagging their tails before we whip out The Clenis™ again. Employ a little preemptive Dick Massage.

When The Clenis™ is used so boldly it has to look spontaneous!

::: posted by VPOTUS at 2:41 PM

Monday, May 12, 2003 :::
Hello, girls. Everything's fine here: Your mother has had her meds and she's resting comfortably.

We can't be completely certain what precipitated this last problem, but we're reasonably sure it's The Clenis™.

It is, truly, the most potent political meme in modern history. Thanks to a leftist code-named "Jennifer," its new nomenclature will make Clinton's penis more powerful than ever before.

Need tax cuts for the rich? Brandish The Clenis™. Want to start an unprovoked war? Whip out The Clenis™. Get those cracker confirmations through the Senate? Flog The Clenis™, again and again and again.

Part shepherd's staff, part Satan's pitchfork, The Clenis™ is the biggest WMD in the political arena.

Unfortunately, all that power must be used responsibly.

Someone, we fear, overused the meme this weekend with your mother. We suspect the General JC Christian, who may have been given too much access. The impotent General had previously been considered for "non-provocative" detail for your mother, but his recent fixation with The Clenis™is cause for reassessment.

Your mother is doing much better now, genital chafing aside.

We have medical science's best doctors and ointments all over her.

::: posted by VPOTUS at 6:49 AM

Sunday, May 11, 2003 :::
Mother's Day! Thank you for the gifts, whatever they are....

Girls, I hope you've not been too stunned by the truth to keep reading. This can be an awkward way to learn your parents' real nature. Just be glad we aren't using video.

Mother's Day: It's time you came to grips with your mother and history.

You know that my recovery gets occasionally derailed. (And, yes, I am having a cockatil at the moment. Since yesterday.)

Let's just get the truth out there!

I'm tired of being made to feel guilty for feeling a little natural desire.

It's no great shame, girls, to go trolling for firm, college-age flesh when you give a commencement speech at a university. What's a shame is when no red-blooded young man will step up and snatch what's being laid out before him.

I gave those pimply little bastards a road map into my panties yesterday.

Five simple points to get lucky:

Act like you know what you are doing. Believe in yourself. Have strong, firm beliefs. Respect the values of others. And, finally, "know what success is."With an invitation like that, Franklin Graham would have been all over me! (As I think about it now... Has he been all over me? Note to self: Check sex diary for FG!)

But I didn't even get a nibble. And even when I mentioned my pioneer romance novel at the reception -- quietly, of course, to a particularly rugged young athlete -- all I got was a blank stare. Don't these kids get turned on by a good pussy-licking book any more?!

Anyway... A quick reception. Ten minutes at the podium. Ice cold shooters in the limo. And no Dick.

I didn't even think about him.

How ironic, says Mario, you're so single-minded. You ordinarily think about Dick all the time!

Oh, Mario. It's so good to have a houseboy who knows how to twist the knife: Happy Mother's Day, you mother!


PS - You wouldn't believe the talk in Little Rock about The Clenis! (That's the new sniglet for Clinton's penis.) Isn't it Satanic how the Democrats keep us so focused on Clinton's cock?

::: posted by VPOTUS at 6:34 AM

Friday, May 09, 2003 :::
Well, it's off to Little Rock, Arkansas -- without your father!

Wonder who I might share a cigar with there?.... Mmmmmm....

I love to tease Dick that way. He can't help but imagine that I'm talking about Clinton and his big ol' trailer trash cock. It drives him crazy!

Anyway: I'm speaking at tomorrow's Harding University commencement. The place is a little less notorious than Bob Jones, but only a little less weird: They think it's a sin to play the piano while they sing hymns! It's only four percent black -- and most of them are athletes! So the mission is simple: just massage the base, hit the talking points, and duck out long before cocktail hour.

Between the low quotient of black men and the slavish devotion to cultish Christianity, there just couldn't be a safer place to make an appearance.

After all, no self-respecting Bible Studies major is going to ask me any embarrassing questions about my pussy-licking novel!

With such a willing, pliant student body, who needs Dick?

::: posted by VPOTUS at 4:27 PM

Wednesday, May 07, 2003 :::
Kissy kiss, girls. It's your father, here.

We announced today.

Your dad's on the ticket in '04.

How do I know?

Because I say so.

Everything was arranged while POTUS was still in the flight suit. After the teleprompter but before the sedative.

While he was still jazzed enough to make buzzing noises and play airplane games. But before he got snippy and started spitting on people.

He signed off on it in purple crayon, aboard the U.S.S. Lollipop, for all he knew.

Let that be a lesson to you: When you shit bricks, girls, just use 'em to brick up the shithouse. Halliburton? SEC? GAO? Iran?

Your mother's pioneer pussy-licking novel?!

These are not problems.

Just bricks for the Bush/Cheney '04 shithouse.

And fodder for a few extra hits on the Nyquil bong.

::: posted by VPOTUS at 6:07 AM

Thursday, May 01, 2003 :::
"Write what you know."

That's all I said. But now we've got a little Homosexual Harmonic Convergence going on here -- and your father's ass is tight enough to crack filberts.

Blame Rick Santorum! "Man On Dog" indeed! Everyone's talking about it now.

And god forbid any of Gen. Christian's "hot dog" pictures see the light of day.

Your father is sure someone will dig up a copy of "Sisters." There were 500 printed back in '81; Signet Canada swears almost all of them were remaindered. So 472 are accounted for.

I just wrote it on a lark!

But those twenty-eight missing copies have my Dick tied up in knots!

What if someone tracks one down? What if they can quote verbatim from the book? There won't be any more high-minded generalizations, no academic whitewash about same-sex empowerment and "pioneer feminism."

People will just quote the pussy-licking!

You two were so little when I wrote that. And if I'd had an inkling of how your tastes ran then, well, I think I might have toned it down a bit. I just thought you had a passion for tuna casserole!

Still do, really! You'll be an ex-gay before you know it! If I can quit smoking, you can quit.... whatever it is that you do!

And let's be clear: I wasn't writing about anything so vulgar as present-day homosexuality, of course.

This was history.

When pioneer women took each other in their arms, kissed deeply, petted one another to climax -- and, yes, even tongued each other's vulvas -- those were acts of defiance and independence! Those euphemisms I used for clitoris -- "thrill button," "love bud," "pink piggy" -- those were nineteenth-century proclamations of power!

Dick laughs that it seems so important to say something like that out loud, to make the name commonplace.

But did you ever meet a Vice President named Clit?

It's just so hard to make people understand history!

::: posted by VPOTUS at 3:09 PM

Friday, April 25, 2003 :::
You know how I always told you to look for the silver lining? I'm without Dick again today at this new location. So I'm looking for something to cheer up the reinforced concrete walls.

Business opportunities, of course!

This week of Easter egg farts and hoi polloi hand-shaking has yielded a simply glorious dose of exposure -- and a Bold new plan: I've started the James Madison Book Award and ponied up the first year's $10K to pay off whoever submits "the best work of history written for young people."

The butt-nuzzling media lapped it up.

As your father has always recited, "You have to spend money to make money." But not with reporters who are smooching your ass cheeks for better "access." And a ready group of contributors for whom a few grand is a long weekend's champers money.

It's just that easy! Every news report in the nation mentioned "America: A Patriotic Primer."

You can't buy that kind of publicity.

Oh, wait! Yes, you can: for ten grand!

I've alway loved Jamed Madison, who had the big brass balls to declare victory after the U.S. took a real spanking in the War of 1812 -- with the Brits burning down the White House and the Capitol. And he convinced so many pinhead patriots that we had really won the war that he destroyed his rival party.

Doesn't that sound like a good battle plan now in these economically-challenged times?

My next book? "Tax Cuts With Spot and Dot: A Patriotic Reader"!

Mmmmm, I love stoking the firestorm of nationalism -- almost as much as I love my Dick!


::: posted by VPOTUS at 7:58 PM

Monday, April 21, 2003 :::
It's finally over!

Too bad your father's not here to savor the aroma of victory.

The relentless search. The explosive energy, the embedded journalists. The bold and mighty challenge of it all.

The whole world looked to me.

Easter, 2003.

I hosted the White House Easter Egg Roll!

I know by the time you read this -- if you ever read this -- it will be very old news. Obviously.

But Mario and I have been squealing all day! Yesterday, Easter, the South Lawn was just crawling with military families and their little no-necked monsters.

I was at my most perfect. I pimped that pulp like a freakin' pro. For once it didn't even matter that I was without my Dick!

I had my book.

And I was at the top of the pecking order for once. Not POTUS, or FLOTUS, or VPOTUS.... me! WVPOTUS! Queen of the South Lawn!

I made those little bastards roll those eggs for all they're worth.

Faster! Faster, I yelled at the kids!

Buy more books! More books, I yelled at the parents.

And the more I screamed, the faster they rolled their little eggs, and the more they begged me to autograph their little books. They ran and panted till their little faces turned blue... and the more the little fat ones choked and puked, well, the more fun it was! I loved making the chubbies cry!

Mario said I looked great on the news, but that's just because a Ramos gin fizz at just the right moment can give you such a glow!

I stayed stoked all afternoon long, from the moment I finished reading "America: A Patriotic Primer." Mario was smart: It's hard enough pretending that you wrote the damn thing, but just try saying the title three times very fast in tight foundation garments.

So Mario refused to fizz me up till after the reading. He was right. I was cool. Sold a lot of books, with coverage on all networks.

And nobody seemed to want Dick the rest of the afternoon.

It was all just a big fizzy blur of fat kids pushing eggs with spoons(!). And it was all about the bunny -- and, of course, my book.

And the 12,000 hands to shake. Knowing full well there was a Democrat in there somewhere who'd been fingering his ass just for me.

A sniff of politics in the air!

Thank God for Purell -- and Dick Massage.

Miss you,

::: posted by VPOTUS at 3:40 PM

Sunday, April 06, 2003 :::
Hello, girls. Don’t worry. We're kosher.

I say that whenever I can now. My own kinder, gentler massage with the neocons. You understand.

Not like your mother. She’s resting now. TLC. TCO.

Taken Care Of.


This whole “blog thing” is unusual. Bold. That’s the only word for it, really. This is the new stuff.

CNN happened in 1991. All the embedded wind and fancy poo smears these days. They should be paying me royalties, for chrissake.

I wrote the script for CNN. Oscar-time for POTUS. Thank you, CfoxNfoxNfox. (The tech boys hot-keyed that one for me. They're a gas.)

They call it TTN. The tech boys, that is. Tinker Toy News. They crack the firewall on dollar bets now.

Wicked with a Mac.

And blogs are what’s “hip” right now. A millennial thing.

Think Norman Conquest-millenial.

Not a cakewalk. A slow slaughter. Triggered by an irrational aggressor.

Not you, we tell the POTUS. Often. To aid processing.

(No "auditing"! Let there be no mistakes about that!)

This has been my paradigm for communication with the POTUS: to convey the chief warmaking insights of the Norman Conquest through a metaphor more accessible to his elemental gestalt.

"Friday Night at Hodge’s Cafe"

He thinks he read it as a child.

So it serves well, working -- as it does -- on a number of levels.

It has to.

Pardon my French, but I’m up to my freakin' aorta with The Very Hungry Caterpillar. It just can’t illuminate everything. I’ve lost three analysts on that very problem.

Bellevue Time.


For our purposes, Hodge’s Cafe IS the Norman Conquest.

NOT the Crusades. Repeat: NOT the Crusades.

I should meme that every day.

I’ve been reminding the POTUS. "Sometimes he throws ice cream on the floor just to watch it 'smoosh.'”

Smoosh!!! he'll say. Smooooooossssssshhhh!

Focus on the duck, I tell him.

I like the duck, he says. The duck is crazy.

Stay with the duck. Imagine the consequences for the duck.

It doesn't make sense, of course, but it engages the POTUS. Better than a sock toy. More depth. Like catnip in the Nyquil bong.

Smooth but.... stimulating.

The POTUS is simple, not stupid. (We'll meme that again.)

The duck, I say. Focus. Focus on the duck.

It’s working. Between hits on the Nyquil bong, he has already signed most of the vital documents.

We are growing more robust every minute.

::: posted by VPOTUS at 9:11 AM

Saturday, April 05, 2003 :::

tHiss thimg. shit... dick is fimally out of the room for just a mimute amd... just a sec.

There. now i can spell it. n n n n n n n n n n n n n. it works. a minute here. the stupid "n" key was stuck. (i think that happened once to someone's spacebar? afros. agfrioss. atroesss. shit{_*(

oh fuck parenthesess.

look: here's the story. and yes, it's been a lost weekend. the potus brought over that damned nyquil bong.

icy tanquerayy in a nyquil bong is ... well, let's put it this way. if faulkner had a nyquil bong, he'd never have written about yoknapatawfa. it would have been harris county. or smith. (okay, i'll use parentheses. i'm educated enough to do that, even if it irritates the potus. he rants about spelling. hates it. and subtraction. thinks a footnote is something to kick. on behalf of america...... fuck yale) two hits on the nyquil bong and i can barely read yoknapatawpha, much less write about it.

i've got to get some watercoffee

twenty minutes later

better now. coffee enema. quick and clean.

now. yes i'm drunk. fuckall.

you had to find out sooner or later. so. this is it.. my mnmote to you. the tgdferuth.

coffee makess me shiverrf. but it sure clears the head.

mario says don't burden you with any of this because everyone knows, except those who don't. and me for some reason. mario says i don't know Dick

so let's just get to it. i want you to know this.

it's very important. if anything happens to me.

i'm not going to type his name again, because ..... the tech boys. i've got to try. shit

i'll try to do this later.

five minutes later

back mow. mario said he had to use the laptop

pardom me. im clearly coming dowm.

amd the damm m key. agaim. shit.

it's mario. i should have kmowm.

mario just loaded up a double om the myquil bomg. with a roofie or somethimg.

the potus is very very amgry. he's gettimg the leather out. Dick Massage!

it's okay, girls. mo secrets amymore!

mo secrets!


::: posted by VPOTUS at 10:18 PM

Thursday, April 03, 2003 :::
So yesterday was fun. One of the tech boys drew the short straw and had to tell your father that someone cracked this site.

And it's supposed to be as secure as the Cone Of Silence! (That's what I said to Dick. Really got his goat. He takes such pride in his work!)

Anyway. Said tech boy got his first Dick Massage. It wasn't pretty.

The good news? This site is secure again! Completely inaccessible to anyone but us. And the Patriot Act makes that inaccessibility pretty "robust," Dick says.

Before I forget: Please don't tell anyone about the day before yesterday. Or yesterday, for that matter. Talk about hair of the dog! You just can't watch a really vigorous Dick Massage like the one that tech boy endured and not need a pop. (If you've never watched Dick's boys tweak an extra couple volts out of a cattle prod, well... you don't know the Egyptians and DieHards! It's been like this ever since Dick decided it was too risky to fly clients to Cairo for massage. The bunker gets crowded sometimes. And a bit ripe.)

That, if you must know, is why we have to keep the boys in the back when Ann Coulter visits. I don't know what her thing is for "swarthy men," but she turns the leather sofa into a Slip-N-Slide whenever they're around. And her bony ass distresses the leather. Really. I've told Dick she really shouldn't be allowed to watch the massages anymore, unless we get a special set of plastic slipcovers just for her. I don't care how much she likes it! She just seems.... well, vulgar.

These days, I just don't watch much anymore. Except through the lens of an unstuffed olive! (It occurs to me that, in a way, Ann IS an unstuffed olive. Note to self: get a nice gift for Ann! one like Peggy Noonan's. And make her eat a sandwich, for chrissake.)


PS - No word about Gen. Christian. God knows he's loyal, and... tenacious. But he's really just dumb as a stump. Let's hope he got the message -- or Mario says Dick is going to be all over him!

::: posted by VPOTUS at 9:23 AM

Wednesday, April 02, 2003 :::


::: posted by VPOTUS at 10:17 AM

Tuesday, April 01, 2003 :::
My Dear Children:

It is my fervent hope that you never read this.

Your father is Dick-tating, as he likes to joke: This is our gift to the family, he says. A record of our precious days here at The Undisclosed Location.... days which test our souls, but marry us as a golden alloy in the crucible of our purging love for God and country.

My, how your father can talk! (He's gone now. Another call on the shoe phone, he says. We joke that he has to go to the Cone Of Silence to take his calls now. Remember Get Smart? "Talk into the shoe!" Oh, how we laugh. Thanks to the Patriot Act, all the old spy gags are funny again! And the new nanotech means that Dick can wear Bruno Maglis instead of Florsheims!


Thirty minutes later:

Dick's not back yet. Sent word that I should "carry on." (Your father says you're supposed to pretend he's still speaking, you're only reading it in my voice. Or something like that. Kind of like with Nancy and Ronnie, or Karl and the POTUS, only more honest).

This whole thing is a little bit easier now. A cold Tanqueray martini does the trick! Dick says we get "Tanqued" every night -- but it's just one drink. Doctor's orders. Dick's pacemaker isn't too reliable on high-proof evenings, what with the mega-doses of niacin and all, and we really shouldn't turn it up, anyway. The last time I kissed the POTUS goodnight with a drop of gin on my lips, he slipped me tongue. (Almost ate my mouth. Greedy kisser! It wasn't bad;)

Joke! Gotcha!

So let me say what's important while the martini still works.

Dick says... just a sec. He left notes somewhere.

Here: Your father says we leave everything to you two, "all to children, share and share alike." (That's legalese -- not Singhalese! Ha! Your father has used that joke on every money man in China. Big time!) That's not what the old will says, but we've covered this ground before. Thank you for understanding. We drew that up when we still believed one of you was lost to us, before we learned it's really reversible!

You are bright. You are hard-working. You are decent. And aversion therapy really helps with the cravings.

But we won't say anything more about that. Love conquers all!

Beyond that, your father says you need to know that the Cayman account is accessible only with your palmprint AND the password. Most places just use a palmprint, but that's not secure enough for your father. (Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you, he says. Some of his jokes...) Anyway. You know the password, he says. Just remember the old combination from the lock at the boathouse, then apply the numbers to the decoder, setting 467BA. Then divide by two. That's all there is to it!

No, that's not right. Give me a minute. I'll remember.


Twenty minutes later.

Still no Dick. (Story of my life, quips Mario. How I love having the use of Dick's Philippino houseboy! So ready with bon mots! So delicate with the vermouth!)

And yes, I'm having a second martini. Don't worry about it.

I looked for your father's notes, but I can't find them. Maybe that's not the password. I thought it had something to do with that old boathouse, but a combination lock doesn't sound right. Maybe it's just "boathouse." No no no. Brick house? Brick... something house. Try it. Just spell "brick house" into the decoder, same settings I said before. Will that do it?

Is that all? Oh, yes: the Swiss account. Same deal applies. Zurich branch on the Banhoffstrasse. Take it to the Limmat, Dick always deadpans. (Pretty lame. No one ever laughs, except the POTUS. I know he doesn't know what the flip it means.) Zurich. Your father slips away there so often to relax! The Swiss seem so free-wheeling and impulsive to us. Such cut-ups!

Another half hour?

Mario says after this one I won't even want Dick anymore. It's a big one! Mario put it in one of those enormous joke tumblers your father swiped from the Bohemian Grove. With an extra stuffed olive for using courtesy words! Ha!

God he's cheap. Your father, I mean. You'd think all those millions would be enough to buy some freaking glassware. Oh, no. We have to drink from Camp David old-fashioneds, and Lincoln bedroom goblets, and Oval Office shot glasses (LBJ really was a hoot!). Christ! Just pour the gin, Dick! Does it always have to be about the POTUS?

Your father seemed so flattered when he picked himself to run for VPOTUS. I've never seen him so humble. No head-cocking, no whispering, no smirking. Just nice. Like when he was young. When he used to believe in voting.

I miss my old Dick!

Mario is howling now. All I have to do is mention your father and that crafty little Philippino can wring a dirty joke out of it. Mario makes it almost fun to be married to your father.

More olives, Mario!

A good pimento stuffing will have to suffice when there's no Dick, Mario says.

God, he's funny.

Thirty minutes later. Maybe more?

Mario says he didn't use any vermouth this time, can I tell the difference.

The truth? No, I say.

Guess what, says Mario. I never use vermouth!

He's so.... subtle. Really masculine in his own way. And he can manhandle a shaker and strainer, let me tell you. Great big hands wrap all over that shaker cup.

Dick has small hands, of course. Ha! Not that it matters anymore. All that digitalis, or whatever it is. Dick jokes that he's "saving himself from marriage," but that's just another of his horseshit jokes. He hasn't had a hardon since Kennedy.


Mario says: That's why Dick say I like Ike!

What a fucking riot.
I don't know what time it is now. It's dark outside, I think, because I can hear the extra generator humming.

My tongue feels like Dick's back: hairy, with the clinging, fetid stench of rot. Gross!

I'll try to write more later. Just hope you like the "blog" template I chose. Your father will hate it, but angels are divine beings, Dick or no Dick.

Remember that, Mario says -- and don't be in too big a hurry to get to heaven.

This country will survive, and so will you girls, Dick or no Dick.

Oops. I wasn't going to say anything more about that. Really.

More olives, Mario!


PS - This blog is private, just for us: I clicked the setting so no one else will ever be allowed to see it!

Just like your father and his secret Energy Task Force!

PPS - Just so you know, we're having some fun today. It's April Fool's Day -- and we've been massaging our clients, as Dick says. That means we're just letting them know they're kneaded. We give 'em a little Shiatsu, the kind that gets a big tip just for showing mercy.

Dick let his guard down for just a second today and -- boom! Server issues. Those tech boys are such tricksters. We just wonder, for the good of the country, if they understand the consequences of this kind of mischief.

Blogspot servers sizzled for hours. That'll soften up those homosexual liberals and their Dick-bashing.

PPPS - Just stopped by Gen.JC Patriot's blog. Should this really be public? Note to self: Order a Dick Massage for the loose-lipped General.

::: posted by VPOTUS at 12:00 PM

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