Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The lost entries of Ronald Reagan's diary, pt. 1
Editor's note: These are lost entries in Reagan's presidential diaries. The dates have been removed for security reasons and for legal reasons. For more information about Alzheimer's Disease, go here. For more information about insane leaders of the people, go here.
Did the State of the Union tonight. Looking out at all those Democrats reminded me of the orgy I accidentally attended once just before ‘Bonzo’ was released.
I remember it like it was yesterday, which is to say not very well. Ha. A little Gallo's humor. I shouldn't drink wine.
It wasn’t supposed to be an orgy, but McCarthy showed up and Ed Hoover was already there, in a powder blue dressing gown, so things kind of went south, leaving me to sit in a corner with a soda water and contemplate my relationship with my wife, whom I’d recently divorced because she didn’t appreciate my desire to abandon my stalled film career in favor of public office. As I sat there watching McCarthy do unsavory things to a minor starlet, all I could think was, “Well. Gee.”
“Well. Gee.” Two words that changed my life.
Also that night, I realized powder blue was a terrible color for a hairy man. Imagine how horrible the ‘70s were for me. Powder blue everywhere, as if Edgar was taunting me from the grave.
Now that I think of it, I think I married Nancy to combat my distaste of powder blue. Her severe blood-red wardrobe was and remains a comfort to me.
One more thing about the orgy: Nobody blackballs like McCarthy.
Regan just reminded me of something I forgot. Then he reminded me to forget it. I nodded and pretended to know what he was talking about. Then remembered I have another 'a’ in my name and am not named 'Donald,' so finished shaving.
Went to feed the beast today. I hate the press the way I hate Communism and Elizabeth Taylor (I will never forgive her for insisting on that homo Clift over me for ‘Place in the Sun,’ though it was probably a wise choice. Audiences would never buy me having sexual congress with someone like Shelley Winters). [ed. note: Reagan was never up for the role of George Eastman in George Stevens’ ‘A Place in the Sun;’ it is not clear why Reagan disliked Elizabeth Taylor. When asked about Reagan’s feud, the indestructible actress quipped, “It’s no coincidence his first wife was named ‘Wyman’” Also not clear: what Taylor meant by her quip.]
The first question asked of me, by that guy with the bad toupee from ABC, was something about Contra-altos. I told him I knew nothing about opera. Now there’s a scandal because the elite liberals in the media think a man who leads people should know something about culture.
I ask back, "If I spent my time worrying about culture, how could I create a culture?"
The toupee guys follow up was this: "Sire [sic], are you aware of the culture you're creating by ignoring the Contras?"
My answer: "This is off the record."
Toupee guy, I think his name is Regan Donald's son, assured me we were now off the record.
"The Contra-altos are lucky to be getting paid at all. No one likes opera."
That told him.
Mommy told me tonight that her astrologer... [ed. note: Entry incomplete]
Hudson died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t remember.
Take that, liberal media press persons who don’t think I know culture. That line above is a direct quote from Camus’ The Stranger, which Ron jr insists on quoting at me every time I take a trip France. Or Africa. I don't remember.
Turns out Rock Hudson, who starred in that terrible movie opposite That Woman with Violet Eyes about oil, died of being homo. People seem shocked that homo living kills.
Funny story: I wanted the role Hudson played in that movie because it seemed to me a nice way to promote the benefits of oil. Again, That Woman refused to allow producers to cast me. My career could have taken off like a gushing oil well but she blocked my casting and so here I am, alive and President of the United States and joyfully having occasional sex with my female. In Reykjavik.
Take that, That Woman.
George told me he is running for president. I told him he better buy some Nikes! We laughed, then I explained what Nikes were and he suggested a great shoe store in Cleveland specializing in flat feet so I dispatched an aid.
Speaking of aids, I wish the beasts in the feeding pen would stop asking about them. What do they want me to say about aids? They’re just there, they aren’t a major news story. Maybe the contra-altos need aids? Ha!
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