I haven’t weighed in on the whole Eliot Spitzer thing because I don’t know much about it. I mean, there’s no chance that I was Client #8, and that I once ran into Spitzer in a hotel when he was with a girl who I had spent the night with a week before and that when that happened again, a week later, the three of us went upstairs and assembled the swingset, if you know what I mean. Actually, there really is no chance, because I’ve been clean and born again for a decade. Sigh.

Let’s call the whole thing off! (AP)

While I was waiting for John McCain, I broke into a little tap dance. That’s right. Do you want to know why? No? You sure? Really? Absolutely sure? It’s weird how I keep asking if you want to know why, and it’s a rhetorical question, and despite that I keep hitting this wall where you say that you’re not interested. I’m going to ignore your answers and move right on past it.

I danced while waiting for John McCain because I was happy, because it hit me all at once that soon I won’t have to be the President anymore. Soon, some other poor sap will come to work at the White House and sit in the White Chair, behind the White Desk, and feel the crushing dullness of this momentous honor.

Associated Press

If you read that headline fast it looks dirty. I mean real dirty. My father used to tell me dirty jokes. Once when I was six he said, “Want to hear a dirty joke?” and I said “Okay” and he said “A pig fell in the mud.” What a ripoff. Truth be told, I didn’t exactly want to hear one. I was only six. I would have been mortified if he told me the one about the stinky whore. Still, it was a trick.

In the time since then, my dad has made up for lost time. He has told me every dirty joke in the book, and a few that are so filthy that they have to be in another book, wrapped in special paper. Just the other day, he told me one where the punchline was “When I put the lawnmower in there yesterday, it was running fine.” Then he told me one where the punchline was “I came in her hair.” Both were classics. Man, is he ever filthy.

I raise this issue not to give you a negative impression of a past President but to remind you that today is the day that the contest on the Democrat side gets down and dirty.

Some people want me to get rid of the tools I need to protect the country. They’re wrong. Some people think that international law means I need to bend over and take orders. They’re wrong, too. Some people think we’re in a recession, not a slowdown. Also wrong. Some people think that when you mix peanut butter and jelly together in the jaw in a swirly pattern you have somehow corrupted both substances. Do I even need to say it? I mean, Jesus R. Christ, why is everyone wrong except I? Or is it me? I guess it’s both of us.

I used my toughest language in weeks. I prodded Congress. I stuck a poker up its ass hole. Is that language tough enough for you? It is my considered opinion that “ass hole” is a dirtier way to talk than “asshole,” because when it’s two words like that, you get lulled by the first one, the ass, and then all of a sudden, there you are, thinking about the hole, which is the really dirty part.

The ass hole, I mean. Not every hole is dirty. Not the hole that Congress put me in by blocking my effing way on effing surveillance, all because those effing pantywaists can’t effing see that the legislation “must include controversial provisions that would shield telecommunications companies from wholesale lawsuits over their assistance in monitoring the phone calls and e-mail messages of suspected terrorists without warrants.” If the New York Effing Times can see that, why can’t those effing effers?

In other news, I started watching American Idol. Those kids can sing! Though Simon Cowell is still an ass hole.

I watched the Oscars, and I have only one question: why wasn’t Fletch nominated?

I mean, I know it was a few years ago, but are the rules so rigid that they can’t bend to admit the most perfect movie of all time? Remember when he had fake teeth and pretended he was an airplane mechanic? If there’s a more perfect moment in the history of the American cinema, I haven’t seen it. This is something I don’t say all that often, but I modeled my entire Presidential persona on Fletch. I even asked my Dad if I could get inaugurated in a Lakers jersey. He laughed like I was joking.

Other than that, the show was kind of blah. Billy Crystal was good, in the sense that he wasn’t there, and several of the movies seemed like they were decent, too–maybe a third as good or, in rare cases, half as good as Fletch. Also, that one woman who handed out statuettes had a perfect rack. You know which one I mean.

Associated Press

I can’t believe I’m trapped here in Africa whilst protestors are burning our embassy in Belgrade. Did you catch that? Whilst? I have been studying vocabulary diurnally in the hopes of appearing more brainy. The Serbs are mad because Kosovo declared independence. Well, listen, John Q. Serbia: what would your existence have been like if someone denied you independence? You’d still be living in mud abodes, imbibing Serbian Pollen Punch. You’d still be craving electricity. This may not be exactly accurate, but come on: I’ve been reading vocabulary books, not history books.

Oh, also, I wrote a new song about those revelations that John McCain might have had an affair with a hot blonde lobbyist. It goes like this:

Can’t blog long. In Africa. On cheap computer that looks like cereal box. Maybe it is cereal box. If you don’t get this message, America, that’s why.

A computer in Africa

Anyhow, it’s good that I can’t blog long, because I don’t have much to report. Ghana is great this time of year. One of my favorite jokes is when someone tells me to do something, I can say, “I’m gonna,” and it sounds like I’m saying “Ghana,” and everyone gets all confused, most of all me.

The only other point of order, really, is Lindsay Lohan. Did you see her Marilyn photos in New York magazine? Leapin’ lizards and protrudin’ nipples, as my grandfather used to say.

Ah, Valentine’s Day, the day when we remember how quickly sorority girls in Texas in the seventies gave it up. Ha ha. Private joke between me and Laura. Anyway, I love my wife and I love my life. Isn’t that what this day’s all about? Some left-wing sad-sacks on the radio, real narcissistic melancholiacs (let that put to rest the idea that I am the dumbest president) were talking about how love doesn’t mean much anymore, because our culture is crass, because we’re at war, because the earth has a fever … Boo hoo.

In about an hour I’ll be in an eagle-shaped bathtub getting a hell of a back rub. If that sounds like a hip-hop lyric to you, it’s because … well, who’s the mack?