“J.P. HELP MY MOM!” the email read. I was reading it at 12:30 at night, groggy and full of sleep after taste testing, for a friend, a new brand of pinot (two glasses in the winter, only one in the summer; I’m nothing if not disciplined.)

On closer scrutiny, I saw that it was from a “Chelsea.” Did I know a Chelsea? My writer’s imagination bubbled up.

Perhaps, I fantasized, it was from the daughter of an old girlfriend with whom I had had, unknowingly, a brief liaison that produced issue.

No, not possible. I would never — not even in my crazy early 20s in New York, stoned or sober — have produced issue with a woman who would name our daughter Chelsea.

I remember Althea, a buxom opera student from Utah, who introduced me to my first brief fling with cannabis, and with whom I shared a fondness for Hire’s Root Beer floats.

Althea once fantasized about our having a daughter whom we would name Carlotta. (She got the name from a Spanish language newspaper she found on the subway.)

Althea and I broke up, and I heard that she later married a cartoonist named Bob Diaz. True story; changed names.

Of course, when I put on my computer glasses, I saw that Chelsea was, of course, the daughter of Hillary and Bill.

This was ascertained moments later, when the Apple bell rang, and I received another plea from Bill.

“J.P., are you going to help Hillary? We’ve counted on you in the past. You also came through with a generous donation even as you were voting for Obama.”

How did Bill know I voted for Obama? Did the Clinton task force hack my computer? Was that how that mysterious server in Chappaqua really worked?

This one came in at 1 a.m.

“JP. You’ve been in Hillary’s corner since Day One, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Can you help save Hillary now?”

This one came this morning, and it shows just how much they’re into my life.

“History looks good on you J.P,” it read. It’s the Clinton’s new campaign ad: “Our Made for History Collection just got bigger. BROWSE THE SHOP” the insert shouts, followed by a long list of cool T-shirts.

Just as I was getting up to go to the bathroom, this one flashed on and stunned me:

“Thank you, J.P. Devine. I am overwhelmed and I am moved by the fact that in March alone, our campaign received more than 1.7 million individual contributions from working Americans, and that it was our most successful fundraising month of the campaign. Thanks so much.”

Signed BERNIE.

Bernie? I donated money to Bernie?

When did I do that? This concerns me, as lately I’ve been have some momentary pre-elderly cognitive disruptions. She, who thankfully is only pre-pre-elderly and still in partial control of her cognitive skills, says it’s nothing to worry about.

If she had read the next one, she might have taken another view:

“J.P., my husband Barack Obama asked for your help.

My friend Joe Biden asked for your help.

My friend Nancy Pelosi asked for your help.

That’s why I’m coming directly to you before tonight’s deadline in 7 hours. I hope I can count on you, J.P. Will you pitch in $5?”

OMG! I sent money to Barack this week, and Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi? And now Michelle Obama is hitting me up?

When did I get those requests? This is scary, because I spent all the residuals from my book (“Will Write For Food,” now available on Amazon and at your local bookstore) on lottery tickets.

She is upstairs now going over our Visa numbers to make sure I didn’t reply to them, and she’s already taken my card away from me. I wonder, could she, as a mother, really turn Chelsea away? Really?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. His book, “Will Write for Food,” is a collection of some of his best Morning Sentinel columns.

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