I've been publicly humiliated before. There was the Passover dinner when I showed up as Jesus, the weekend my sophomore year of college when all my pants got ruined in the wash, along with all my non-leopard print bikini underwear, of which, honestly, there's like one pair - I don't know what it is I love about the leopard g-string, but it makes me feel...special.
But narrowly missing embarrassment? That's a new one on me. I don't know what it says about Senator Mitchell's staff's investigative skills, but I can't believe my name wasn't on that notorious list.
Did I just do that good a job hiding it? I'll admit my fastball doesn't sink like it used to, and my changeup has gone from filthy to merely unkempt. But look at my forehead! It's eight inches tall! Ben Affleck wants to know what product I use to cut down on the glare. Vince Vaughn is worried I'm going to cut into his acting opportunities (don't worry, Vince, no one can be as satisfied with themselves as you are).
And the bacne - let's just say I'm not allowed to turn away from Wife anymore. I have to back out of the room so she can convince herself my back looks fine.
The worst is that I've lost my testicles. They tell you horse steroids will make your jewels shrink, but did you know that African elephant steroids are available in any convenience store in Thailand? Mix that with some essence of squid duodenum, and you've got yourself a .650 on-base percentage. And nothing in your cup, but ask Barry Bonds, he knows it's worth it.
So thanks, Senator Mitchell, for leaving me off your list. I'd send you a campaign donation, but a sudden onset of roid rage compelled me to break ever writing implement in my house. Stupid penmanship, that'll show you!