It is but three weeks and a few days since I began it, but that is long enough for the world to have been sent off to begin the makeover which will render it sufficiently beautiful to be the bride of His Magnificence, George I, Emperor of America and Protector of Texas. (This assuming, of course, that Dr. Rumsfeld and company do not botch the extensive plastic surgery they have planned for the old whore.) Well, whether she ends up a patched-to-passability born-again-virgin frump, or a cadaverous mass of flesh writhing on death's doorstep, the Most Holy Reverend Ashcroft is committed to performing the ceremony. Not to do so would be a sin, after all, since George I has already screwed her senseless. Ah, well. Boys will be boys.
Does anyone detect a slightly, well, jaundiced tone in this entry? If so, I'm sure it's only your imagination. You should get out more! Spend less time sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought! After all, our deliverance is at hand! Who needs to think at a time such as this?