It's hard to believe that just eight short years ago I was America's first black president, and now I'm being called a racist.

Just because I sent my grandma "Mammaw" a funny postcard showing a stereotypical black boy eating watermelon, does that make me a racist? Heck, no. So I decided to take a home racism test, sort of like a home pregnancy test, to see if I'm a racist. And I'm happy to report that the results came back negative. Here's how I did:

Play saxophone? Yes, 5 points. Sound more like Boots Randolph than Charlie Parker, deduct three points.

Eat fast food? Yes, 5 points. Jog there instead of driving Cadillac Escalade, deduct two points.

Raised by single mom? Yes, 5 points. Single mom white, deduct one point.

Now that my wife's futile campaign for the Presidency has been euthanized, I can go back to being bawdy, lovable Bill with the skyrocketing approval ratings. To do so I must take the following steps:

Attend a National Disaster:  Big George Bush and I used to attend every national disaster that occurred: Katrina, Micronesia, the Tigers bullpen in the '06 World Series. I need to get to the next national disaster, and quick. But I won't help out in Iowa with the floods. I've spent so much time there when I pass a cow it says "BILLLLLLLLL!" And Barack's home state probably doesn't need my help as it is the fairy tale capitol of America. It would be like going to a flood in OZ. You spend all day lifting dwarfs over your head.

Lift a dwarf over my head:  People do love dwarves. They're so cute. You can get more babes walking a dwarf then a prize winning Yorkshire Terrier.

Write a 1000-page book: Possible topics include How to Spend a Year as Second Fiddle when Everyone Knows you're First Seat Saxophone and Watermelon Farming for Idiots.

Read my lips. I did not have sexual relations with that woman. Which means I nailed the bitch.

Hillary and I have a modern marriage. We each have a list of people we can have sex with without ramifications. Her list is Patrick Moynihan and Bill Nye. Mine has 75,000 names.

I particularly remember this day because I was wrapped in a sheet with a hole in it and Gina had a towel on her head and then the fire alarm went off and we had to rush outside. Or not. Damn! I really can't remember anything since my operation.

Of course Gina is denying. Sweet, sexy, shit for brains Gina promised not to reveal anything that would reflect badly on Hillary's presidential run and has no idea that her campaign is deader than Samuel Jackson's acting career.

Oh, and by the way, they are real and they are spectacular.

Todd Purdum, husband of my former press secretary Dee Dee Myers (been there, done that -- there, there, and oh yes, there) claims to have interviewed dozens of former aides and advisors for his recent hatchet job of me in that well-known purveyor of kiddie porn, Vanity Fair (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

As superdelegates make their choice between Barack Obama and my wife Hillary, I would like to remind the SD's where we would all be if  I had stayed in Arkansas in 1992 using my state police connections to get random tail.

Hillary Clinton: Divorced her husband in 1994 and opened a woman's pantsuit store in Little Rock. Filed for bankruptcy in 2007.

Nancy Pelosi: Pilates instructor in Santa Monica.

Al Gore: Dropped out of politics to sell Hummers in Nashville. Spends his days ensconced in his mansion running the air conditioner on high and refusing to get his leaky faucets fixed.

Barack Obama: Lost his alderman seat in Chicago after he built his platform on opposition to a war we weren't fighting. Became a correspondent for an Illinois television station and is now the host of Cheaters.

Bill Richardson: Deported.

At first, when Hillary told me that, because of my less than helpful behavior, I was being banished to small towns where I couldn't do any damage, I was outraged. But I could not have been more wrong. I love small town America.

These people are so hungry for a taste of fame that everything stops when I arrive. They meet me with a high school band and cheerleaders. Ohhh, cheerleaders. Their short skirts, their tight sweaters, their color coordinated bloomers visible as they're thrown so high. (Franklin and Jefferson were geniuses making the age of consent the same as the voting age.)

Then there's the food. Barbecued ribs, chicken dripping in grease, everything Hillary won't let me eat. And cheerleaders, cheerleaders with greasy fingers and sexy sauce stains accentuating their midriff-length bibs.

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I have to once again defend myself from another partisan attack, this time by that well known conservative bastion, The New Yorker and it's hatchet wielding "columnist" Ryan Lizza. Has anyone noticed that the reporters who slam Hillary and I have last names ending in vowels? I am not inventing this, it is fact.

In his little hit piece, Mr. Lizza says:

Every story has seemed to reinforce an image of Clinton as a sort of ill-tempered coot driven a little mad by Obama’s success.

Then he quotes a mysterious adviser who chose to hide behing the cloak of anonymity.

“'I think this campaign has enraged him,” the adviser told me. “He doesn’t like Obama.”

Vladimir, my man. A divorce and a 24-year-old gymnast? A 24-year-old gymnast ... my hands tremble as I type.