Confessing is in. It's the thing to do (rehab is SO 2007!). These days it seems you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some celebrity, politician, or chat show host in the midst of a very public mea culpa, dazed spouse at their side, disclosing sordid details about their private lives (which is precisely why we gave up dead cat-swinging for Lent).
It was fun at first; Jimmy Swaggart's tearful I-paid-a-$50-hooker-to-pee-on-me-in-a-Motel-6 "I've sinned against you" speech was hilarious. Likewise, Jim McGreevey's I'm-being-blackmailed-by-a-Jewish-boytoy-and-now-it's-time-to-come-out-to-my-stunned-wife "I'm a gay American" press conference really should be set to music and recorded by Clay Aiken.
But now it's quickly becoming tedious. David Letterman, Mackenzie Phillips, John Ensign, Mark Sanford, Sam Adams, Elliot Spitzer...the list grows daily. Everyone's jumping on the bandwagon without giving the slightest thought as to where the bandwagon's headed. Nor do they seem the least bit concerned about that last shred of good taste being crushed under the bandwagon's cruel wheels. It's like Crocs.
Cathy-licks, who have never been accused of good taste (see: The Blessed Virgin's frequent appearance in chalupas, the pope, et al.), at least confine their confessions to where they belong; in a dark closet, whispered to a cross-dressing pedophile. We're begging future confessors to reconsider the press conference. We'd really rather not be subjected to the inevitable, constant loop on CNN.
Instead, why not simply fill out our New Confess-o-Matic™ form below and fax it to Wolf Blitzer? The world will thank you.
THE CAN O' WHUP-ASS CONFESS-O-MATIC™
I, (your name here), after a great deal of:
- advice from my attorney,
Have decided that the time has come to disclose:
- The woman trapped inside my body.
- The eggplant wedged inside my rectum.
- My torrid affair with sensitive yet virile Brazilian florist named Cadela Feroz.
- The subterranean lair I've constructed under my house, where I keep a growing brood of albino incest babies who feed on worms and were born without eyes.
- My Celine Dion record collection.
The burden of keeping this horrible secret for so long has led to a shame-spiral, culminating in an unfortunate incident where I:
- Eloped with a cocker spaniel.
- Banged a retarded broad.
- Ran naked through the Piggly Wiggly singing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from "Hello, Dolly!"
- Subscribed to Esquire.
- Got wasted and repeatedly screamed "F*GGOTS!" during my keynote address at a GLAAD-sponsored convention of Liza Minnelli impersonators.
I would like to apologize to my long-suffering:
- Fans and/or constituents
- Pet leprechaun
- Stable of randy rent boys
For causing so much:
- Bowel obstruction.
- Sperm stains.
- Fibro Myalgia.
I hope everyone will find it in their heart to:
- Forgive me.
- Re-elect me.
- Put my publicist on speed-dial.
- Overlook my hobby of giving hand-jobs to passed out alcoholics under the viaduct.
- Give me one last rusty trombone in the men's room, for old-time's sake.
In the meantime, during this time of healing, I ask that you respect my family's privacy so that we can:
- Prepare for our appearance on Oprah.
- Ink a book deal.
- Bicker and hurl expensive breakables at each other.
- Consume the last of the human flesh still cluttering our freezer.
- Have one last S&M felching orgy before setting things right with The Lord.
Thank you, and:
- May God bless America.
- Does anyone have any crank?
- Signed copies of my memoir are available in the lobby for $35.
- Remember to follow me on Twitter.
- Seriously. Does anyone have any crank? Just a little bit?
David Letterman sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is 1 through 8 on my personal top ten list."