I don’t know what happened. I cut the same deal with the same guy as Kissinger did, and next thing you know I’m dead and that rat bastard Hunter Thompson is writing my obituary. Knew his football. Blew his brains out. We had a laugh about that. I’m back. He isn’t. Mysterious ways. I’m big enough to do both our jobs and looking around, I can tell you they both sorely need doing.
I’m vindicated. Everybody gasped and fainted like a bunch of fucking spinsters at a nursing home dance when I said that when the president does it, that means that it is not illegal. Now it’s the law of the land. Vindicated. When the president takes you out, it is not illegal. When the president taps everybody’s phone, it is not illegal. Not illegal. Bomb who I want, where I want. Not illegal.
If I had the same tools in my time that these pantywaists have in theirs, I’d still be the fucking president, dead or not. It’s my time again.
Bastards killed Pat.
I saw the debates. Debates! “She goes running for the shelter of her mother’s …” Morons, hopheads, panty-sniffing queers and that robot-looking fella. Robots the CIA were building back in my day looked more lifelike. Say, you don’t suppose …? No, they would have built him quicker on his feet.
I’m back. That Negro fella … smart, but soft. Nixon never had the gifts, nobody running interference, had to grind out every fucking inch, everybody always piling on. Never had the looks, face like a potato. Not vain about that. Worried, though, this high definition, there’s a lot of makeup in my future.
I’m back. Lost a step, maybe, but smarter dead than most people are alive. Done my homework, nobody ever said Nixon doesn’t do his homework. I’m back. What’s that the kids say, how do they say it?
I’m back, bitches. My country needs me.