New York Times: “Ms. Conner and Mr. Trump refused to answer any questions from reporters about reports alleging drug use or drug testing. Mr. Trump said that he went into a meeting with Ms. Conner this morning expecting to terminate her reign as Miss USA. But he said the meeting showed him someone with ‘a good heart’ who had ‘left a small town in Kentucky,’ only to be caught up in a ‘whirlwind’ in New York.”

Here’s a key to understanding the euphemisms, all helpfully contained in quotes (thank you, Ms. Hauser!), within this article:

“a good heart”: Team player.
“behavior and personal issues”: The tendency to have fun in a manner considered unwholesome to folks knocked out by a single shot of bourbon.
“left a small town in Kentucky”: She’s wholesome and American! Really! And she’s from Kentucky!*
“pushing”: Smearing a person’s character on silly charges.
“terrible”: Wouldn’t put out for Donald Trump.
“very, very bad”: Unacceptable to humorless prigs who haven’t had a night of fun in decades.
“whirlwind”: vigorous partying involving alcohol, some pot and coke, as enjoyed by thousands of other New York clubbers requiring a weekend divorce from reality.

* — Just like that Jim Varney guy you loved so much in the Ernest movies.

It began with a charming correspondence I maintained with Aggro Littleton at DearBlogger.com, who believes that identifying the size of my penis as “pequeño” is a protected form of free speech. It continued with several emails to Holly Lisle, who slandered me further by suggesting that I might be a slattern (there is only one definition of the word!), but who would not allow me to send her a full-scale JPEG of the penis in question (along with three notarized statements from former lovers attesting to the size).

I know there are differing reports about my anatomical dimensions, but this is getting ridiculous! The lies, damned lies, and assorted hysteria directly caused me to ply into a bottle of Stoli last night. It is Littleton and Lisle’s respective charges that are not only slanderous, but have caused me considerable emotional and physical distress. (Physical distress indeed! I was, for example, unable to jerk off last night, because I was still stewing over every sentence, every word, and even the comma placement contained within Littleton’s wholly lost and unfounded charges.)

Now I’m wondering whether or not I even have a penis. And I won’t know for sure until I take a shower. And even then, can I truly count upon my own perception? But I must! For I am right, and nobody else can correct me! I have nothing to learn from disagreement. Thus, the appropriate measures have been taken.

Rest assured, I have contacted lawyers. I will be filing at least five lawsuits this morning. And if this isn’t enough, I will file five more tomorrow. My legal team will be taking a shower with me this morning, to determine if, in fact, the penis allegations are true. We will have very precise diagrams, blown-up as exhibits, that we will bring with us to court.

My lawyers will shut down every blog that deals even remotely with books. And they will do this on Christmas Day. Justice must be exacted for charges, real or imagined. And if it inconveniences bloggers as they attempt to celebrate the holidays, then these bloggers SHOULD HAVE KNOWN WHAT THEY WERE GETTING INTO IN THE FIRST PLACE!

I will fight, fight, fight, and then fight again. I’ll take this to the Supreme Court if I have to! I’m a blogger, dammit. And if this means point-by-point rebuttals of pedantic arguments, posted publicly and then further commented upon by readers, who will then take sides and waste additional time, then I accept the absurdities of a cruel universe.

Contact Music: “Balding makes Bruce Willis no less a man, and even enhances his acting abilities, the Hollywood star insists. The hardman is defensive about his thinning palette, but claims it means he can change his appearance more easily. He explains, ‘I’m a man and I will kick anybody’s ass who tries to tell me that I’m not one because my hair’s thinning.'”

“So what’s it going to be, fellas? Costello, I’m going to New York with you. We need ourselves a Person of the Year.”

“You!”

“Yeah, I’m the guy steering this committee. And if we’re not careful about nipping this in the bud, we’ll be here close to Christmas. You got any bright ideas, squirt?”

“Don’t you get it? You!”

“I got a name, shortstop.”

“You! That’s our Person of the Year!”

“What the hell did I do?”

“You!”

“You!”

“Yes, that’s it!”

“I was only doing what you did.”

“But that’s just it!”

“We can’t have two Persons of the Year. We had three Good Samaritans last year.”

“Which is why we settle upon you!'”

“That’s a conflict of interest.”

“No, it isn’t. Let me explain. The reader picks up the cover and sees the word ‘You.'”

“Which means the manager?”

“Yes.”

“The coach too?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody playing baseball?”

“Yes.”

“And who are these fellows? Do we need to know their name?”

“Well, we shouldn’t. Because the Person of the Year is ‘You.'”

“Then you’re the Person of the Year?”

“Yes.”

“And who are you?”

“Me. But that’s part of You.'”

“Me? The guy on first?”

“Yes. You’re You too!”

“The first baseman?”

“Yes. He’s Person of the Year too.”

“This is too goddamn conceptual. Priscilla wouldn’t approve.”

“What?”

“I Don’t Give a Darn!”

“That’s next year’s Person of the Year.”