Life Is Good

The Shootist who threatened to fill HH's backside with buckshot bladed our driveway today. Not our road. Our driveway. Which to me is a bit invasive, but HH ate it up like like a deep-fried Milky Way. In case you're a city-slicker, blading is when you take a tractor with a blade and scrape the gravel from the sides back into the middle of the driveway, leveling the driving area instead of having mudholes and ruts.

I didn't accidentally give birth to octuplets after in vitro fertilization paid for by my food stamp money for my six kids under seven, and the disability money for three of those kids, and my own disability money because I hurt my back in a riot at a mental hospital and the pain was so severe that I could not work, but I could bear children conceived and implanted through in vitro fertilization, and I could have collagen injections in my lips and a nose job to give me an Angelina Jolie nose.

Even though I have been homeless for the last year, living in a truck with my 37-year-old son who left his job as a computer programmer and hasn't been able to find work, I managed to find out about the President's town hall meeting and get a ticket and get to the front and ask Mr. President if he could help me get my own kitchen and bathroom because even though I couldn't vote since I didn't have an address, I prayed for him to win, and now the wife of a Republican state representative is giving me a house to live in, so I am sure everything will be OK now and I won't have to get a job, because nobody wants to hire me when they find out I am 61 and getting disability for cancer.

I didn't whack my big ol' empty head on the door of Marine One.

Nobody tried to put lipstick on me.

My job building RVs at the factory in Elkhart, Indiana will soon be calling me back, because this stimulus package in going to make people buy RVs again, even though the big auto makers are supposed to start making electric cars because of that so-called energy crisis we had back in the summer of 2008.

Nobody found out that I used steroids in 2003 when I played baseball in Texas, and nobody published a photo of me taking a bong hit in 2008 right after I won a few gold medals at the Olympics.

Never have I forgotten to pay my taxes even though the IRS sent me letters notifying me that I was delinquent.

I did not lapse into a coma watching the infomercial campaign special that passed as a news conference last night.

I am not dead with pieces of myself flung into the ocean, I do not live on $12 per year in a shack, and I am most certainly not an illegal alien living in public housing and drawing a welfare check with a fancy schmancy lawyer fighting my deportation who escorted me to the Inauguration.

I dodged the Grim Reaper by refusing to eat any peanut products today.

People do not call me 'Chimpy' and blame their unhappiness on me.