By now I’m sure you’ve had the chance to not watch my latest YouTube video, where-in I go desperately behind the scenes of my conversation with John McCain and his improbably-still-breathing mother Agnes Skinner.

I’m joking of course. She really isn’t still breathing. She absorbs oxygen through her papery skin. And fine, her name isn’t really Agnes. It’s Roberta. But here's the video, so you can ignore it here too:

Recently, on that show I do that you don’t watch because you’d rather be sitting through that ‘Seinfeld’ rerun where Jerry picks his nose, we aired an important story about illegal immigrants (mostly women) who give birth to things (mostly babies) in order to stay in our country.

Hispanic groups are calling me “the female Lou Dobbs,” named after the immigrant-hating blowhard. But they fail to take into account that my alcohol and drug addictions are keeping plenty of illegal Hispanics employed. In fact, I have five Dominican housekeepers (all named “Rosie”), and three Guatemalan nannies (also all named “Rosie”). None of my Hispanic dealers and employees have ever said one bad thing about me, and have even given me a cute nickname: Culera, which I’m told means “Blessing hole” in Spanish.

I’m so sensitive to my employees' heritage that I won’t even allow them to mop the floors with Spic-and-Span.

Let's get the bullshit out of the way: No, I'm not replacing Larry King on CNN.

I'm staying put at CBS, sitting behind a desk that hides my legs, reading depressing news items that no one wants to hear, squandering my natural celeb-interviewing talents. Is it any wonder that the only high points of my day are when I'm high? If I didn't have alcohol and drugs to keep me going through all this talk of "Katie Disaster" and "Katie's pushed out at CBS," then all I'd have is my record salary, my kids, my hot younger boyfriend and my frequent colonoscopy exams.

Some of you might remember... no, that's not right. None of you probably remember that I was to host a Presidential debate back in December, but my writing staff decided to screw me over and threaten to strike. The Democratic candidates, being the dull, unadventurous, spineless creatures that they are, cancelled my debate because they were too chickenshit to cross a picket line that didn't even fucking exist.

My friend Hillary, however, has held on to her delusional bid for the White House in the hope of giving me a shot at the big time. She's agreed to attend an April 27th debate between her and Barack Obama, moderated by your's truly and that asshole Bob Shafter.

Bob Schieffer. Whatever. That old guy I've got to pay constant tribute to.

Anyway, Hillary's agreed to the debate, but Barack Obama? No. He refuses. He says, "I am always open to debates but ...it's not clear that the April 27 debate will work for our schedule."

Fine, Barack. Fine, you dick. I'll just have the stupid debate anyway. I'll just see what Morgan Freeman is doing on April 27th, and invite him to play you in the debate.

I'm coming down from a three-week ketamine bender. You'll have to forgive me if I seem out of sorts.

"Sorts" isn't the only thing I'm out of. I'm also out of a job.

Goddammit! And I was trying really hard, you guys! But you--you!--you never watched me, you never even tried to feign interest. You just wanted to see me fail. I'm the Hillary Clinton of broadcast journalism.