George Santos Sickens Me

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We should have known George Santos was a pathological liar by the way he always made the quotation marks sign with his fingers whenever he said the words, “George Santos.”

George Santos is a disgrace. The lies never stop with this man .

It’s gotten to the point where I no longer trust that he’s even lying. I am now convinced Santos is such a pathological dissembler that every word he utters is the absolute truth. That’s just how much of an imposter I believe him to be.

Last night I was having dinner with George Clooney and his lovely wife at my home in St. Bart’s on Lake Como, and the three of us all agreed that the one thing we can’t abide is a prevaricator.

While George stepped outside to take a call from someone he owes money to, Mrs. Clooney and I got to talking. Long story short, I explained that marriage is built on trust. And while I do find her pleasant enough, I prefer women a bit more bookish, George is a dear, dear friend, and how would Sienna Miller feel should I come to her later that evening reeking of Amal Clooney?

So, you can clearly see that a man of my moral rectitude is thoroughly disgusted by George Santos.

I mean, who lies about their mother dying on 9/11?

Granted, whenever we traveled together my mother insisted I tell everyone she was fatally wounded during the Battle of The Bulge, but that was only for the free drinks and comradery.

So, yes, I’d be lying if I said I’ve never lied.

But they were always harmless half-truths, like telling women I played for the Knicks or lying under oath that Robert Chambers was the Preppy Murderer.

Also, sometimes when I’m standing on a subway platform late at night and jam a pistol into someone’s gut and whisper, “Hand me your wallet or I’ll kill you” it’s a lie. I would never kill the guy if he didn’t hand me his wallet. I sometimes feel bad accepting money based on false promises, so it feels good clearing that up.

Also, I’m not David Feldman, I’m really Larry Goldstein. I changed my name for show business, but not well.

And I guess I should confess this is not my actual hair. What I’m wearing is the toupee I inherited from my Grandpa Mort who stole it off a German soldier during World War One.

While it’s true my grandmother was a nurse with Eisenhower’s army, I may have stretched the truth a tad when I bragged she gave Winston Churchill a sponge bath and a hand job the night before D-Day. I’m pretty sure it was just a hand job.

OK, I’m glad I got it all off my chest, which is also what I believe were Winston’s parting words to my grandmother.

As we start 2023, let’s use George Santos’ downfall as a cautionary tale of why it’s always wrong to tell fanciful stories about ourselves.

I hate to quote myself, but I put it best in my epic poem Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field, which I wrote in the early 19th century.  If memory serves it goes something like this, “Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive.”

Truer words were never written if I do say so myself.

Now, as the sun sets over my beautiful home in St. Bart’s on Lake Como, let’s resolve to speak only the truth in 2023.