The more astute of you media scum have discerned there are other Emperor VIP johns to identify, fixate on, then make terribly obvious puns out of their names (Spitzer Swallows – That doesn’t even make sense as a headline.)

If I’m no. 9, logic tells you pathetic failed novelists, there are eight others. Number six has already been identified as the Duke of Windsor and the speculation game is in full swing for the others. I’ll spare you the effort, here are Johns 1-8:

No. 1 – Charlie Sheen. According to Kristen’s former pimp Jason Itzler, for $20,000, Sheen had Kristen and another prostitute dress as cheerleaders and chant, “Charlie, Charlie, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, nobody can!” That sounds like a pretty G-rated thing for perverted Charlie to have them say, so I have concerns about the validity of Jason’s claim. Invariably, a sex order from Charlie involves the command “eat” and also usually includes “anus” in some context.

No. 2 – Dick Cheney. I bet you didn’t want to picture Dick Cheney having sex. But you just did. Ha. Now picture what his smirk looks like while he climaxes. Now picture his butt. It probably has white hair on it.

So, it’s all over. Interestingly, the biggest proponent for me staying in office was my wife Silda. (If you read this blog yesterday, I finally coaxed her out of the bathroom by threatening a hunger strike – for the kids.)

Silda not wanting me to resign shouldn’t be that surprising. She knows that if I can’t crack down on abuses in Albany, I will turn with equal vigor to the ones being committed in my own home. You should see the cronyism that takes place for morning bathroom use. Also upon an anonymous tip from a Spitzer resident identifying himself only as Booger Throat, I will be launching an investigation into the shortcuts being taken on Italian night. I have reason to believe Silda’s spaghetti sauce is actually Paul Newman’s tomato and roasted garlic. But that is for another time.

First a note to the general public, fuck off. Mind your own goddamn business you worthless cubicle jockeys. Sorry, my lawyers tell me to limit my profanity-laced tirades, but know this the greater state of New York — you are the scraggly pubic hairs to my scrotum. Each one of you.

This message is for my wife Silda, so the rest of you do yourself a favor and hang yourself by your mouse cords.

Silda, honey, it’s Daddy talking. Please come out of the bathroom. I’m sorry I said that you seem all too delighted to play the humiliated victim. It’s just when I ordered you to courageously appear by my side, I expected you to not have that dead-inside glaze covering your face — as if you had just witnessed our kids being horrifically slaughtered. I know you can’t help being a drama queen, it’s in your nature. Not your nature specifically, but the nature of women.

Associated Press

In a way, you should be glad I did this. I spared you from the physical humiliation that a man with such dominance issues and power lust like myself must enact on others. For you, it’s just the standard fare of psychological abuse, verbal sublimation — child’s play really. I have too much respect for you to do those things to your clavicle.

AP

Consider this my unofficial statement.

First of all, to say there was literally a ring of prostitutes for me to sample like an endless buffet, is absurd. It was never more than two or three girls at a time. So by my calculations that makes it, at most, a prostitution prism.

But more importantly this isn’t my fault; it’s just another example of the Republicans doing whatever they can to discredit me, the Democratic Party and my reforms in Albany. They knew that I like to have sex with dirty whores and guess what, when I had one of my infamous dirty whore cravings, magically many of them were available in an elaborate online network.