What is this—reality or the director’s cut of the Crucible? Last time I checked I was living in various mansions spread across luxurious international locations, not a thatch-roofed hut in a 17th century Salem. But where else could I be if a squeaky-clean photoshoot of me is being called a sex scandal?

You know what media outlets, you’re losers, but you have to feed your pets and occasional blind dates--so I’ll let you in on a real scandal.

Everyone--even the editors of this blog—think that Jon Voigt is my father. It’s true that my dad is a blond-haired, blue-eyed superstar---but he isn’t crazy old Jon Voigt. Thanks to the work of a couple of genealogists, now you’ll all know the truth.  They say that she’s my cousin, but that’s only because she got to them first and bribed them to keep the filthy truth off of her pantsuit. Hillary Clinton is my father!

No amount of incredulous statements from her PR people can erase my memories of being swept up in her strong arms after she came home from the office, her breath smelling of coffee and nicotine, her undershirt sopping with sweat. That’s the daddy I know—and the one I’ll vote for in November, come what may!