I’m the Commissar, which is all you or anyone needs to know about My fat regal ass and My divine right to spew My rancid guts out on the heads of the innocent and grant pardon to My friends in the next gasp.
There is only One Commissar, so therefore I write The Rules of Being the Commissar, which are what I say they are today until they change when I say so tomorrow.
I should write a book, or get some toady writer (god knows I know some) to write one for Me. I could call it maybe “The Art of Me Being Me,” which would be Me on being Me, by Me, which is all you or anyone would ever need to read, ever, about Me being Me.
It would be very, very true, because it would be My truth, My facts, and My facts are better than your facts, very, very much better, the Best facts.
But enough about Me. I have My pardon power to exercise, and the list of sinners (your word, not Mine) and sycophants (I love them so much) is long.
By the powers vested in Me, by Me, I pardon you, Patrick Reed. I pardon all your rich self-entitled brethren, even those who would condemn you (or worse, Me), to whom I say You be You, because it looks a lot like Me being Me.
Finally, I pardon, in advance, My base, the men of the Grey Goatee Golf Association, for whom as Scheduler-in-Chief of the Global Golf Calendar I place you above all other entities worldwide. I pardon you for any whining among you for My scheduling of My tournaments on days you can’t play because 1) I don’t care, and 2) it could change on a whim, My whim, at any time.
I pardon those who say, “Who died and made you Commissar?” You’ll be back. You love Me. And I, by which I mean Me being Me, can accept that.