A sincere apology to the military officials whose careers I ruined (again):
OK. So, yeah, I’m in the hot seat again, guys. For today’s column, I’m going to address what is apparently going to be a recurring topic about our nation’s military leaders: their wild, crazy sex lives. I just want to tell both the CIA and the men they currently have strapping a bomb underneath my car that I am very, very sorry about my involvement in David Petraeus’ affair.
I gotta be honest, I am just completely torn up about this latest terrible scandal, especially because this isn’t the first time I’ve been implicated. First, there was that whole thing in Columbia where me and the Secret Service partied with prostitutes, did tons of drugs, and made a dozen Columbian orphans fight to the death for our amusement (it was a crazy night, I’m not sure how much made it into the news). A lot of good men lost their jobs, from Agent (REDACTED) to my personal friend Agent (REDACTED). After writing that nice apology column and moving to Mexico for a few months, I believed I had put the whole thing behind me, and I swore to never again party with any government officials higher than, say, a state governor.
But what can I say? My boy Davey-P was down in the dumps, and he needed a buddy to show him a good time. Life was bumming him out: The wife didn’t seem to love him anymore, his new hours were driving him nuts, and he was firmly convinced that Star Wars VII was going to ruin the franchise. Also, something about presiding over the war in Iraq and holding the fate of nations in his hands. You know, guy stuff.
So I did what any BFF would do: I called up our homeboy General John “Crazy Eyes” Allen, ordered a truckload of Polynesian mushrooms, queued up the Hangover 2 soundtrack and the three of us hit the town. I’ll tell you right now, Bobcats: You’ve partied with hipsters, you’ve partied with stoners, but you haven’t lived it until you’ve partied with the commanders of the world’s most powerful armed forces. The details of the night are hazy in my memory, but I do seem to recall the three of us snorting a line of powdered walrus tusk off the stomach of a 300-pound stripper named Candy. Great guy.
As you can imagine, we were still running wild when we hit The Crystal and some chick started making bedroom eyes at Davey from across the bar. Look, dude, if I had known she was your biographer, Paula Broadwell, I never would have said that she was “totally into you, dog” and that you should “tap that.”
Those were terrible suggestions made by a misinformed but ultimately very well-meaning friend. I just want you to remember that before you program the drones to blow up my house (again).
Frankly, though, I think we should all consider ourselves lucky that so far the only things the feds have unearthed are the emails we sent out that night. Can you imagine what would happen to us if they found the recording of us singing “And I Will Always Love You” on Sarah Palin’s answering machine? Or the photos we took of us leaving a flaming bag of dog crap on the White House porch? Or the things we did to that poor elementary school? All things considered, I feel like you guys are getting off pretty easy with just a sex scandal or two.
That said, I’m totally taking the blame for this. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson after Columbia, or Anthony Weiner, or especially the whole Monica Lewinski thing, but for some reason I just can’t seem to stop getting you guys in trouble. Rest assured, though: I’ve talked to my counselor, and I assure you this is the last time I’ll ever have to write a column apologizing to our country’s leaders for ruining their marriages and careers.
Assuming Michelle doesn’t find out about Barry and me in Vegas last weekend, that is ...
Ryan McAndrews is a journalism student at Ohio University, a once-in-a-while government contractor and a columnist for The Post. Has he ruined your extramarital affair? Email him with a complaint to email@example.com.