By guest contributor Ben Bradlee
Sometimes I am embarrassed at how satisfied I am with my life.
I’m 85 years old.
My doctor has just told me I’m in good physical shape. Actually, he said, “wonderful” shape.
I am surrounded by the people I love. I live in fabulous houses, spectacular enough to be featured in national magazines, yet comfortable enough for someone who values “comfortable” above “beautiful.”
My kids are healthy and apparently happy. And the same for my 10 grandchildren.
I work out in the woods, clearing brush with a tractor and three chain saws.
My wife of many years is a spectacular person, and a great partner.
I had a great ride as editor of a great newspaper. I was lucky enough to fight in a war I believed in and work in a profession I believed in.
I still smoke three packs a day of Chesterfield Kings.
I wrestle wild cougars in my spare time. I drive a monster truck.
Sometimes I call up some ex-CIA friends and put out hits on my enemies, then call them off at the last minute just to demonstrate my mercy.
A veritable harem of beautiful young girls (and boys) serve me breakfast (two eggs, poached, black coffee, and an 8-ball of uncut cocaine better than Lindsay Lohan’s wildest dreams) in bed each morning, then sponge me down in ass’s milk.
I’m friends with Bruce Springsteen.
I fuck dancers and once a month I dig up Nixon’s corpse to piss on it.
I still force the Post to publish Sally Quinn.
Benjamin C. Bradlee is vice president-at-large of The Washington Post. He was executive editor of The Post from 1968 through 1991. His memoir, “A Good Life: Newspapering and Other Adventures,” was a best-seller. His wife, Sally Quinn, is co-moderator of On Faith. He has the strength of ten men and keeps Napoleon’s dick in a jar beside his bed.
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