I’m Here to Help, Mr. Spitzer

MEMO

To: Honorable Gov. Eliot Spitzer

From: Bookfraud

Re: Rehabilitation

Oh, dear.

You’re in a bad spot, soon-to-be former Governor Spitzer, but you don’t need me to tell you that.

However, I have good news, and it has nothing to do with Geico. If you wish to salvage what’s left of your career, you should listen and do as I say — immediately. You’re getting savaged in the press. Your political enemies are buying drinks for everyone in the bar. The over/under on your term as governor is at 5 hours as I write.

And all because you couldn’t find the courage to masturbate instead of buying a hooker.

I can help you make a stunning comeback to public life. I’ve offered my services to others in the past, who were in circumstances far less dire. But they ignored my pleas, and they have fallen even farther than can be imagined. Look at what happened to Michael Vick. Look what happened to Britney Spears. Had Vick and Brit followed my advice, their lives wouldn’t be such a mess. So listen very closely when I say this:

Let’s write your memoirs!

Look, I know this sounds silly, with everyone from the FBI and the IRS and every member of the press on your back. But you should write this book, NOW. With my help, of course.

The typical steps in a public rehabilitation is to confess one’s sins, ask for forgiveness, and do some type of community service as contrition.

Why wait — you can do that all in a book! Explain yourself in a book, and nobody can ask you questions at a stupid press conference, everybody will buy the thing, and unless you’re sloppy like Margaret Selzer or James Frey, nobody will ever figure out if you’re lying. And you can do it the comfort of your office, in the company of your favorite gal from Horny Ed’s Escort Service and Rifle shop!

Imagine the positive public reaction if you were to publish the following:

Looking for some way to update my frequent flyer miles, I was calling Executive Government Concierge Services — or at least I thought I was — when someone answered the phone, "Executive VIP Club." Thinking that this was the same outfit, I continued talking. Before I even realized what had happened, 45 later minutes a "six-diamond" escort was in my hotel room, wearing a leather bondage outfit and spanking me as I barked like a dog.

Think about that, Mr. Governor. All you had done was dial a wrong number!

She’s got shiksappeal!

Or consider this approach:

Shortly following my erection, I mean election, to governor, I was deluged with offers for sex from total strangers — young women, middle-aged men, grannies offering to give me all the enemas I could handle. Naturally, I turned them all down. But, given that I am a public official and must keep my constituents happy, I had to give a good reason — and saying that I’d spent the last 12 hours with and $30,000 on "Crystal"  seemed as good an excuse as any.

You’re giving the people what they want, like any good public servant!

Or, perhaps this risky, risque attempt:

Here’s something nobody knows about being governor of New York — your penis needs to measure at least 10 inches before taking the oath of office. (Yes, the Chief Justice of the New York Supreme Court brings a ruler to the swearing in). My baseball-bat-sized appendage is, in fact, capable of delivering to women unheard of levels of sexual ecstasy. The thing about having such an enormous, thick, meaty pleasure pole is sometimes it takes on a life of its own, like Godzilla trashing Tokyo. Sometimes you have to just have uninhibited sex all the time to keep my gigantic, horse-sized heat-seeking moisture missile in line, so to speak. Since it’s my job to promote employment in the state, buying $5,000-a-night prostitutes was the best way to fulfill my penis’ needs.

A sad tale indeed

You see! You’re a pornstar with pornstar-esque talents! But you can’t control your desires — it just happened.

If you had asked my advice before all of this kerfluffle, I would have told you to do what men in your position of power have done since the time Plato and Aristotle held forth on the nature of government: get a mistress. Did Bill Clinton or JFK even consider getting hookers? No! They, like all men with great power, easily found a willing accomplice in their sexapades.

But of course you wouldn’t ask my advice — I’m just a humble scribe. Most of us writers are just hired hacks, literary wannabes, and screenwriters with a dream. But we do have a vital function in society, and, unlike flaks, consultants, and other types of political prostitutes, you don’t have to feel sleazy when contracting our services.

We’re all human, Mr. Spitzer, and even though you came across as a sanctimonious, holier-than-thou steamroller, many were rooting for you to clean up the disaster of New York state government. Nobody believes that anymore. But I can help you rehabilitate your shattered image.

Remember, that if you want one-star service, it will be $300 an hour, but if you want "everything" in your memoir, my rate is $1,000 an hour. Of course, I know you want "full service." But I won’t do anything risky. Or that involves enemas.