Sunday is Mother’s Day, and I’ve been having all these thoughts running around inside my brain, mostly just about being a mom ‘n stuff like that. I figure I must have a pretty good hang of it now, ‘cause the other day that judge was all like “Blah blah blah, Britney’s allowed to see her sons more often now or whatever.” I was like dang; the timing’s awesome ‘cause now maybe Sean and Jayden are supposed to take me out and get me presents for Mother’s Day, right? (Mommy can always use more Louis Vuitton, if y’all are reading this.)

What’s funny to me is how some people make this big deal, like OMG it’s so hard to be a single working mom. Wanna know a secret? It’s totally not hard. The truth is you don’t even have to do much, ‘cause Kevin’s usually hanging out with them or they’re at baby school or whatever it is they do during the day – part of being a good mom is to respect your child’s privacy, so I try to stay out of their personal business.

Friends, campaigns aren’t all baby-kissing and photo-ops in front of the flag. Sometimes, when your opponent implies that you are too senile to be president, the kid gloves have to come off. And sometimes, you take the kid gloves off, put some brass knuckles on, and ram your fist down your opponent’s fucking throat.

I’m pissed off because this little twerp Obama, who was six fucking years old when I was getting my toenails ripped out by gook—er, the North Vietnamese—and can’t fucking bowl to save his life, not only said I was “losing my bearings,” he called my campaign’s response to it a “bizarre rant.”

No, you know what’s bizarre? This campaign. I remember when I was just breaking into politics, we didn’t have this 24-hour-news-cycle bullshit, where every little thing you do is put under a microscope. I mean, I once punched Lyndon Johnson in the face for calling me a pigfucker and no one heard about it, but now I can’t take a shit without twenty bloggers speculating about its consistency.

In the good old days, we’d have one debate, and maybe it’d be on television—not that it mattered much, since most people didn’t have television. They got their news from radios and newspapers, which we called “broadsheets” or “talking papers.” In today’s world, I have to go on some stupid fake news show and banter with some candy-ass liberal who probably did blow with his ugly comedian friends right before interviewing me. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s fake news.

Finally, after a load of crap about global warming and crying polar bears, scientists have wracked their brains and fondled their calculators to come to a conclusion that most morons could have easily figured out by watching just one episode of the bitchfest known as "Countdown with Keith Olbermann": conservatives are happier than liberals.

According to the report, "right-wing individuals reported greater life satisfaction and well-being than left-wingers".

That's right, according to an NYU study, I'm much happier than a poor minority. And I very much agree, for once, with science. The group of pocket-protected virgin nerds go on to say that their study shows that conservatives "scored highest on measures of rationalization, which gauge a person's tendency to justify, or explain away, inequalities."

Well, I'm not sure about all that scientific gobbledygook, but one thing is for sure: I don't give a shit about the problems of most people, including my friends and family, and it pays.

Do you think I lose sleep in my vice presidential mansion worrying about how poor people will cope with the mortgage crisis? Nope. Do you think I spend time weeping quietly for the environment as I jet around the world on Air Force One? Hell no. And the clusterfuck over in Iraq? Shit, most days I forget that there is an Iraq. Every time I get handed one of those stupid memos that says that something exploded in Sadr City or a bunch of people got killed in Baghdad, I fold it up into a sweet paper airplane, draw some cool Air Force decals on it, and let it rip.

Don't get me wrong, there are certain very critical problems in the world that I care very deeply about. Like money. And how to get more of it. And power. And how to get more of that shit, too. But most problems that I hear about, like the economy, housing, and education, are simply not my problems. I have a shit load of money. I've got a bunch of houses. And as for education, I'm smart enough to get myself to the position of vice president, which means I'm smarter than you.

It's been exactly 13 days since the Sean Bell acquittal or as I refer to it, "Black black guy day". You probably noticed that I haven't posted on this blog in the past two weeks. Most likely you assumed it was because I was too sad-- that the tears streaming from my face would find the cracks in my keyboard and fritz up my hard drive. Or maybe you thought I was too angry and that I would try typing by pounding my fists on the keyboard. For instance,"This is an outrage!" would be translated to the very illegible: "lkshde!sjkfbn%@kjgK&S!"

Well actually the reason I didn't blog was because I was attempting the world's first blogging strike. As it turns out, no one really cares when you go on a blogging strike. Go figure. So we had to think of other protests. Hunger-striking was out of the question due to my affinity for fine Italian cuisine. (Also for Southern, French, Ethiopian, Tex-Mex, Pan-Asian fusion and molecular-gastronomic food).

So we were in a bit of a protesting slump you could say. But then we thought of something ingenious. The most annoying protest in the world!

I don’t often apologize, but that’s mostly because I’m so rarely wrong about anything. But lately I’ve been beginning to fear for the safety of the world because of how good a journalist I am. Everyone has watched helplessly as thousands have died in Myanmar over the past couple days and I…this is hard…I want to apologize.

At first, I like many of you, cursed the heavens for this great disaster, wondering how God could let this happen to so many innocent people in a country already ravaged by military dictatorship and oppression. But then it hit me. Last week I added myself to the ranks of historic television when I performed what is unarguably the greatest television interview in the history of mankind in what has become known as the O’Reilly-Clinton Debates (suck it Frost). A week later thousands are dead in Myanmar from what the islamofascistjewyorktimes-ists have labeled a natural disaster. But I think we all know what’s really going on here. The shock waves from my life-altering interview culminated in the cyclone that ravaged Myanmar.

Ordinarily the idea that my journalism was so powerful and moving that it could literally destroy villages halfway around the globe would be dismissed as egotistical megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur, but did you see my Hill-dog interview?? I mean, Christ, I should have seen this coming. Do you remember when I called her a socialist? That was powerful stuff. Too powerful. I have learned my lesson. With great power comes great responsibility. So to the citizens of Myanmar I apologize – not for being responsible for the single greatest moment in television, but because the reverberations from my booming, omniscient, integrity-laden, yet avuncular and compassionate voice have caused so much death and destruction. I should have realized that Myanmar wasn’t a no-spin zone and was thus susceptible to cyclones.

Friends, I don’t like to use the word “bitch,” but as Mother says, sometimes you have to call a spade a spade, and I’m riding the Straight Talk Express, not the Namby-Pamby Bullshit Express. And if Arianna “Look at me, I’m a blogger!” Huffington calls me a liar, I’ll tell the truth: she’s a bitch.

Wait, that came out a little harsh. See, the problem is I sometimes do say one thing, and then a few months later, I say another thing which contradicts it. But those aren’t lies. It’s just hard for me to remember every small little detail, like whether I talked with John Kerry about running with him, or what state I’m in, or what I had for breakfast this morning. I’m thinking it was toast. A bagel? I might have had some sausage, too.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Huffington. I remember when I told her what beautiful eyes she had. We were sitting on the deck, looking out at the sun setting on the ocean...actually, that was my honeymoon, never mind. Or an affair. Yeah, it was probably an affair.

Hey everybody! How was your evening last night? Probably felt good to kick back after Cinco de Mayo, right? (We celebrated Monday night at Chiles in Ft. Wayne with the endless chips and salsa and four rounds of El Nino margaritas. Chelsea got pretty hammered and started railing on her ex-boyfriend. It was funny at first, but then it got kind of sad because she was a little too bitter.)

But last night? Nothing too interesting to report. Definitely nothing I need to blog about. I almost skipped posting today, but then I remembered something of critical importance: West Virginia!  Like did you know West Virginia is the wisest state? The median age is 40 -- the oldest in the country. Also the first federal prison for women was opened in West Virginia and the actor Don Knotts was born a native Mountaineer.

I'm sorry, I can't do this. All this spin is making me dizzy. Don fucking Knotts? West Virginia is one of those terrible states with a capital you can never remember.

It is my first day in the Presidential office, and I am simply elated. It is true, I would be slightly more elated if I were typing this from the Presidential desk, but there are still many of Putin’s belongings on the desk, and he says that I am not allowed to touch his stuff.

Though I am now President of Russia, and thus should probably be able to do what I like with the Presidential desk, I concede that he has made a fair and reasonable request, and I intend to abide by it. He also says that I am not allowed to use the chair next to the Presidential desk, or the carpet in the Presidential office, and if I intend to use any of the air in the Presidential office, I am to use it sparingly. Still, it is a great honour to be sitting cross-legged on that small patch of marble between the door and the carpet. Putin is truly a kind and generous man.

Who's ready for another anti-climactic day of primaries?!  I guess I am.  Today Indiana and North Carolina hold the last two Democratic primaries that matter (from what I'm told) and if I can win both, Hillary is finished.  But will I?  Probably not.  Because people are assholes and God hates me.

Seriously, I just want all of this stuff to end.  The other day I spent nineteen straight hours campaigning.  Nineteen hours of visiting car factories, eating terrible regional cuisine, and shaking hands with white people who have already decided not to vote for the black guy.  I'm breaking my fucking back here.  And what has Hillary been up to?  She's been making incredibly bad sports analogies and blaming "elite" economists for the woes of the middle class.  Jesus, maybe she has a point.  If I can't gain any traction against a candidate as bad as her how in the hell am I going to win the general election?

Everyone is talking about my nads.

This past weekend, Indiana's ass-kissing senator and veep wannabe Evan Bayh was about to relay something a steel worker told him -- that I had "more testicular fortitude" than "Gucci wearing, latte-drinking opponents" when I silenced Bayh mid-sentence.

Why did I not want him to tell the crowd about my balls? Because it degrades women to align tenacity with the male genitalia. And also, the number one rule in hermaphrodite-outing is that you let the hermaphrodite out him/her-self.

But then James Carville finished the job when comparing me to Obama:

"If she gave him one of her cojones, they'd both have two."

Fine, I admit it. I have three balls. And I realize you probably have a lot of questions. Are all three balls in one scrotum or do I have a spare ball inside a spare scrotum like that extra button in the little plastic baggy that come when you buy a new shirt?  Is the third ball a mutation and hence smaller then my regular balls and ineffective at producing sperm?

Furthermore, are my regular balls as big as a man's or are the circumferentorally smaller at a ratio proportionate to the male/female body size differential?  And lastly, does Jamie Lee Curtis know about this, and do you guys have weekly tea to discuss your freak junk?