I just want to be free. I just want to be free. I just want to be free.

I wasn't going to bring this up -- cries of "sour grapes" intertwined with Aesop's Fables and all, plus the rather embarrassing nature of the whole thing, but then if my so-called friend Bill Clinton can withstand the heat of his many embarrassments (jerking off into a sink off the Oval Office while a big tittied Jewish American Princess watched wishing ... oh, sorry, I'm writing the porn novel this afternoon.

Sometimes I get confused ... hey, at least it doesn't happen when I'm going to the bathroom (yet anyway).

Anyway, with no real aid or advice of my crack team of attorneys, Arm, Hammer & Cola, I applied for a Presidential Pardon like any reasonable felon would do when a "morally ambiguous guy like Former President Clinton ("BC" -- we are close personal friends ... or so I thought). It was at my first meeting with my crack legal team at which I realized they refer to themselves as a "crack legal team" because my lofty retainers go largely to furnish their crack habits. My first clue was when I had to meet them the day before Christmas for a strategy session about my pardon and found them in a dumpster behind a pharmacy across the street from MacArthur Park ... literally in the dumpster).

At the time I bought their excuse they thought the pharmacy may have thrown out their Christmas gifts in error, but when Joel the Lawyer jumped up, the remnants of a rotting head of lettuce covering part of his face and a banana peel on the ill fitting three piece blue, green and yellow plaid suit I since learned he bought from the Salvation Army Salvation Army, something should have made me realize all is not quite right with these tony Harvard Law graduates ... and since I have learned that none of them actually graduated from Harvard ... or were ever accepted, but rather were living case studies for the Law and Mental Disorder course offered there.

Oh well. I also, for good or ill accepted their plea that they were too busy to help me with my Application for a Presidential Pardon (no shit, that's what it's called ... you could download them from the Democratic National Committee web site anytime up to 1/1/01 "or whenever the election is decided, whichever is [was] later").

Instead my crack lawyers, claiming they had a "law clerk" sharing agreement" with this other firm that had an actual office with attorneys who did not sleep out behind the Jack in the Box in big cardboard boxes, offered me the assistance of a law student/lawyer to be type ... an overly stupid one by the name of Marcus who did not appreciate being called an idiot, and probably would have felt the same way if I'd called him "worthless," despite the fact he was entirely worthless -- for my purposes anyway ... seems Marcus is "confused" about his sexuality and it isn't too difficult to talk him into having unprotected anal intercourse in the stall of the men's room at the offices where he works in West Hollywood, in part because he has never heard of AIDS or HIV.

I found this out when I stopped by the Offices of Urnessy & Looz, which is where he really worked (if you could characterize Marcus' efforts as "work") to have Marcus look over my Pardon Application:

BDH: Hi, I'm here to see Marcus. You have a spectacular view up here on the eighth floor.

Big Tittied Receptionist [BTR]: Oh, Marcus? He's in the Men's Room getting boned up the butt by one of his "clients." You'll have to wait. Er, the firm doesn't approve, and he'll get in trouble if they see you here, so, please take these condoms for your own protection and go wait by the Men's Room on the third floor

BDH: Er, I'm not that kind of client [I hold up the rubbers] . Want to have cheap, meaningless sex?

BTR: Er, I'm not that kind of girl, despite what you might have read in the rest room at the Viper Room. If you want to have cheap, meaningless sex, Marcus is your man... I hear he squeals just like a girl ... but please, get out of here. Mr. Urnessy is trying to find a way to fire him without being accused by some sleaze bag attorney of discrimination, and has me passing out the condoms so no one who catches AIDS from Marcus can claim we were in anyway negligent -- now you wear them, you hear?

[BTR stops to take a breath. i notice her pupils fill her irises and realize if I don't shut her up I'll spend the next few hours listening to her insane methamphetamine fueled ramblings]

BTR (continued): Anyway, but Mr. Looz, who is also gay -- well, Marcus isn't sure what he is, but ... anyway, Mr. Looz ... he's told Mr. urnessy he doesn't give a shit and he'll fire Marcus the next time one of you scumbag Johns come up here... I can't believe how stupid Marcus...

BDH (confused): Oh, I just thought your firm had some kind of law clerk sharing relationship with my lawyers, Arm, Hammer & Cola, ... if you don't want to have a quickie, I don't need these [I return the condoms]. When, uh, do you think Marcus will be done?

BTR : Oh keep them ... they have our firm ad on them ... sort of a tax write-off. Besides, when I said I wasn't that type of girl, I didn't say I wouldn't put out after a decent date ... spend $100 or more on me and you get a Lewinsky... $125 and I'll finish the job, $200 and....

BDH: Er, that's okay... a little pricey for me, not that I'm not sure you aren't worth every cent of it.

BTR :Well, keep the condoms anyway. Did you say you worked for Arm, Hammer & Cola? No way do we have any agreement with them! Oh, they take a cut of Marcus' hustling gig, but a respectable firm like this ... why Mr. Urnessy only asked me to walk the stroll one month when this expert refused to testify unless he was paid in advance. Can you imagine? I got his damn money and he testified that our client -- poor Ritchie -- would have started earning a million dollars a year within a year of graduating from Dootson Truck Drivers' School -- he was such a hard worker [BTR starts to cry, loudly blows nose, clears throat]. I married him but he stroked out -- I say it was because of the accident ... you know he rear ended this car out here on Wilshire and was never the same after that. I married him anyway, but all he did was shoot speed and drink beer and watch Oprah reruns. So you work with Arm....

BDH: Er, no, I'm....

BTR: Well those bums still owe my girlfriend two weeks salary and....

[At this point Marcus walked in, adjusting his pants, his hair a mess, and we went back to his office where he looked over the pardon letter. He was not even able to muster the ability to pretend he understood it, something which is probably an attorney's most needed skill ... and I knew then and there he'd never pass the Bar. When he was through he looked at me puzzled, and peppered me with questions -- Did I think he was gay? Would a gerbil up the wazoo hurt if it wasn't declawed? Did I think he was making as mistake paying his way through the People's College of Law by selling his butt and if not, were Arm, Hammer & Cola charging him too much for some sort of (I'm sure) fictional protection? I left quickly, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, as BTR babbled on and Marcus ran after me, saying something about how I should tell Arm, Hammer & Cola that the guy he was just with had stiffed him.]

I bet he stiffed him, stuffed him and whatever....

So i send off my Pardon Application with the "suggested" $5000 minimal "donation' to some group in the Cayman Islands called Support Former Presidents and I waited ... and waited.

On January 21 I got an e-mail from some joker, not even BC himself, explaining the "donation" was only a "nonrefundable processing fee" and hence, although I would not be among those pardoned, BC and Hillary thanked me as they were in the throes of an ugly separation, and it would help maintain their "official" residences in Arkansas and New York, as well as Hillary's Georgetown Townhouse, a small Bungalow in Beverly Hills for Chelsea and BC's swinging bachelor pad in New York City (which included pleas for more money like "He's leaning toward taking a place in the Dakota, but the assassination of John Lennon outside that historical building will require more Secret Service protection and thus we hope you will make an annual donation to help cover those costs as those rat bastard Republicans will not authorize the cost.").

I was appalled. I had really wanted that pardon, so I called BC at 4 a.m. PST on his last day as President, interrupting the "dance" Hillary and BC were doing in the foyer before the Bush's stopped by for coffee.

We didn't speak long. Turns out the "dance" was actually a rollicking brawl set off over whether a particular vase would or would not be missed by the Whitehouse staff, as Hillary thought it would look nice in her Georgetown digs and BC wanted it "to remind [him] of some of the stuff Monica used to be able to pick up without breaking."

BDH: Bill, I know you're busy, but my pardon didn't....

BC: Sorry Bao Dai... I ain't ... Hillary, put that vase down! No point breakin' it! We'll leave it here.

[I hear Hillary yelling angrily but can't make out what she's saying]

BC: Dai, I'll put ya through to my Secretary in Charge of Gra... Pardons... Hillary!!!!!

[Sound of shattering glass]

BC: Missed me you dumb bitch!

Female Voice: Office of Presidential Pardons, how may we be of service?"

Anyway, turns out I didn't read the fine print on the Application. As the Secretary explained, the $5000 is just the processing fee. I would have had to donate $5000 to the Presidential Library as well as $5000 per count in indictment or information to Support Former Presidents and $10,000 minimum for each crime for which I'd ever been convicted. But Mr. Bao, you also didn't list what it was you did or are said to have done which would require a pardon. Bill's no Jerry Ford, and you're no Richard Nixon.

I told her I didn't see much point in self-incrimination -- besides, that was big money, even for a famous guy like me.

Then she explained that she understood. "Fame can be a curse." I noticed the Secretary was crying softly. I thought I recognized her voice. It was Linda Tripp.

"I'll be damned, Linda -- what are you doing answering the freaking phone?"

She explained that "The Son of a Bitch said he'd pay for my plastic surgery if I didn't blow the whistle on him about any of the other little sluts I have on tape confessing to pleasuring BC with the Oral Orfice -- I mean Oval Office." He did, but when I went back and asked to have my boobs redone he crudely groped them and I threatened to sue and that's when he sprung his 'Ace in the Hole' as he put it -- fucking prick! Turns out the FBI finally got pictures of me doing it doggy style with Throm Sturmond -- just last weekend -- and so now I have to work this job in addition to my regular job to pay the bastard back for the face job ... so I'm stuck down here in the basement, at the shoe counter of the Whitehouse Bowling Alley and Burger Stand... that's an addition the public doesn't know about -- my bitch publicist who got me into all this trouble and I still want Double Ds... Hustler has offered me a spread and I figure it might lead to my big break in Hollywood. Hey maybe...."

I knew she was going to ask me for help with her hoped for movie career and so dejected, I hung up, still a wanted man, if they ever figure out anything I've done is illegal.

I wasn't even going to mention any of this, but I thought what with the brouhaha over that rich Rich guy's pardon I might be able to stir some sort of grass roots movement for Clinton to "find" my pardon among his papers when he moves into his new office in Harlem ... where by the way, I hear he intends to go totally pimp ... but that's another story.