I really have nowhere else to turn at this point, so I’m writing to you again. Everyone is abandoning me—I mean everyone. My most trusted confidantes are like rats deserting a sinking ship, my executive secretary has quit, and even my old friends Nancy and Joe are calling on me to resign.
The media is calling me a power-crazed misogynist. Me of all people! Okay, I’ll admit to a bit of a sweet tooth for that power thing, but misogynist? No way! I can’t tell you how much I love women, how much I adore them, how much I desire them—which is how I got into this situation to begin with.
Love and adoration and desire need to be expressed, which I have done, and yet all anyone can suddenly talk about is “inappropriate touching.” Since when is a caress or a stroke or a hand on the waist inappropriate if the intention is to signal to a woman romantic interest?
I know all about what’s in and out of bounds when it comes to touching. I often affectionately hug and kiss people—it’s my nature, it’s my Italian American upbringing. We love to use our hands to express ourselves! I keep trying to tell everyone that, but no one’s listening.
And no one sympathizes with how lonely I am isolated here in my mansion, no one to love me, no one to tenderly touch. Oh, how Shakespeare understood the truth when he wrote “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.”
I am suffering, Dave, but I am defiant. Should I keep fighting this injustice against me?
I can quote Shakespeare too: “I am not bound to please thee with my answer.” And here’s my answer: You’re done. Take that crown off your oversized head, start apologizing, and get yourself a good mental health therapist. P.S. I’m also Italian, and I’m not a toucher, so don’t give me that upbringing bullshit.