The Skeleton in my Closet

Everyone has their own skeleton in the closet. You know what I am talking about. It's that dark secret from your past that you hope to take to the grave with you. It is the horrific event from your past you would never tell even your closest friends, because you are sure they would recoil in disgust and never speak to you again. It is the thing that they dig up when you decide to run for public office to ruin your chances of being elected.

Everyone has one, and right here on this blog, I am going to share mine with you. I am not really sure why I chose to reveal myself in such a public way. Perhaps I hope that the catharsis will purge my soul of the burden of this awful truth. Maybe I just want to defuse the story so that when the media gets ahold of it, it will not ruin my presidential bid. Or could it be that I hope that you will learn from my tale of woe, and change your ways before it is too late for you.

Consider yourself warned. What follows is of a highly offensive and explicit nature. If you are squeamish, read no further. If you don't wish to have your opinion of me shaken, stop now. You have been warned.

And now, without further ado, the skeleton in my closet, the dark undisclosed secret from my past now brought out into the light, the most shameful episode from the hidden recesses of my memory: I went to high school with two members of the Dixie Chicks.

There. I said it. It is out in the open. I'm not sure which word I am more deeply ashamed of: "Dixie" or "Chicks". Or maybe it is their music. Or perhaps their tendency to insert their foot firmly in their mouth. In any case, if you no longer wish to associate with me, I completely understand. But I feel so much better. They say that confession is good for the soul.