THE LATE SENATOR THURMOND: Howdy from what I must say is a surprisingly warm, demon-infested Heaven, my dear, loyal, snow-white Amerikkkans! I know you thought you'd heard the last from old skirt-chasin' Strom, but in light of this week's unpleasant revelations about my having fathered an illegitimate, Oreo cookie lust child, then bribing her for sixty years to keep quiet, I thought I should take a few minutes away from Jesus rewarding me for being such a wonderful Christian to speak publicly on the matter – especially since none of my still-living kin seem too eager to be in the same room as this mulatto troublemaker, much less talk to her.

First, I want to give folks a little background on all this. The year was 1925, and I was a hot and horny 22 years old. I had graduated from Clemson College two years before, and was working as a teacher while living with my parents. Now my momma was never much of a housekeeper, which is why she kept all them sixteen year-old colored girlies who wore chains but no panties around our three-room plantation. And well, when a boy finds himself living in a candy store, he can't help but sometimes slip his Dixie stick in the chocolate pot – even when he knows that doing so could imperil a seven-decade career as a church-going Aryan hatemonger.

And so it was that with at least one negress – but certainly not more than seventy-five – I did partake of a big old greasy bucket of Original Recipe dark meat. But I gotta say, when you get that wooly little beaver right up in front of you, it don't make no difference whether it's connected to a porcelain-skinned beauty queen or some toilet-scrubbing coon – any true Antebellum gentleman just can't help but have himself a real good time. Because hey, when I said I would never let "the nigger race" into my swimming pool or home or church, I didn't say nothing about letting their children into the rumble seat of my Model T Ford for some good old-fashioned statutory rape! I mean, so long as nobody's watching, and you clean out your teeth when you're done, that's a damned zesty slice of deeee-licious hair pie!

Get the GODLY New Book!

Of course, there's no reason the races should actually procreate together, unless – to quote my new poker buddy Thomas Jefferson – just because it's erotic to pump your seed into those you own. And unlike that homely fella Dick Morris, I ain't talking about on an hourly basis.

Nevertheless, I am (was) whatsherface's baby daddy, as those coloreds say. I'm not particularly proud of it. In fact, I kept it under my pointy hat for seventy-seven years before God called me home in June. But now, the damned liberal press is reporting that my normal family has accepted this fact, and that they are at peace with it. Well I don't doubt that. Now that that ungrateful mongrel has defaulted on our oral contract by going public, she can just kiss those fat yearly checks from my estate goodbye! And that means just one thing: more cashola for all my offspring whom I didn't find humiliatingly pigmented.

And so, in time, I can only hope that my former supporters will come to understand. And though you may be disappointed in me, I only ask one thing – that my countless bestest pals in the Klu Klux Klan and other subsets of the GOP please spare my memory the indignity of spray-painting "Rase-Trayter" (and the more direct "Nigger Lovar") across the many already disappointingly octaroon-colored bronze statues of me which still dot the South Carolina landscape. Because remember boys, sometimes the best way to rot the fruit is from the inside out. You git what I'm saying?

In closing, I wanted to reassure my family that there's no need to worry about me. Heaven has been great. No sooner had the manicured hand of God plucked my soul from that withered, liver-spotted carcass of mine than I was greeted at the Pearly Gates – just below the "Whites Only" sign – by none other than General Robert E. Lee with a sterling-silver Derby cup full of Mint Juleps. And let me tell you faithful – even the country club Republicans who own the Criterion Collection DVD of "The Color Purple" and lay it across your coffee table when you got high-yellow visitors coming by to talk business – Heaven is just what you've been praying for.

The ribs are always smokin’, the whip's always crackin', and at the end of the day, once all the doe-eyed Nigras have picked the cotton that forms the clouds from which angels sing Bing Crosby, well – there are plenty of young, nubile-like scoops of chocolate ice cream to fu-u-u-u-uck!

Weeee-hoo!

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