Well, it's getting close to my last day as POTUS--that's what they call the President. It stands for Person of Total Undermisestimated Smirkiness. My Secret Service detail told me.

Pretty soon, I'll have to call Dad and ask him to line up my next job. This one was okay, but I thought the Texas Rangers gig was more fun. And not a single member of my cabinet ever tested positive for steroids.

As things wind down, I'm all of a sudden getting deluged with requests for pardons, but I'm not going to fall into that "gotcha" trap.

Look what happened to Bill Clinton, with Marc Rich, his dope-dealing brother Roger and Patty "Tanya" Hearst, Little Miss Symbionese Liberation Army. That wouldn't look good on my bio when I'm trying to land a six-figure speaking gig with the Chamber of Commerce.

So hear me loud and clear--no pardons. Not for none of you turkeys--human or otherwise.

Every year about this time they ask me to pardon a Thanksgiving turkey, but I got burned last year, and wasn't because nobody basted me. I got lam-basted because no sooner did I pardon that turkey than he goes on a six-state rampage through the Midwest, kidnaps a young chick and holds up a 7-11 in Keokuk, Iowa. It was Willie Horton all over again.

For most presidents that would be a tremendous embarrassment. Thankfully, I'm beyond that.