Yesterday the Smoking Gun revealed that James Frey’s best-selling story of addiciton and general bad behavior, A Million Little Pieces, was, alas, mostly fiction. (In a follow-up piece in today’s New York Times, Frey was quoted as defending his blurring of the old truth and other line by putting himself in the tradition of Hemingway, Henry Milller and Kerouac — though those gentlemen all called themselves writers of fiction.) This moment of epiphany has led me to my own moment of confession.

As readers of my own non-fiction know, I have laid bare many of my own dark secrets in print. Drug abuse, alcoholism, wearing white socks with black shoes — I’ve done it all, baby. But there is more. A lot more.

You’ve probably been reading about that outbreak of bird flu epidemic in Turkey. Turns out those kids were playing with a chicken head, which gives you some idea of what the athletic department of your average Turkish school is like. But the sad truth is that I gave them that chicken head. Even though I knew it wasn’t feeling very well.

If you want to know who decided to restart the nuclear program in Iran, you need look no further. I was carrying yellowcake — not uranium, mind you, just a simple yellow cake, with chocolate frosting — across the border. (I had bought it in Nigeria from Joseph Wilson.) Some imam grabbed it and said, “Great, now we can dominate the world and destory Israel! Though not in that order.”

And those Scottish golfing trips Jack Abramoff took Tom Delay and others on? Check out the dude in the tartan plaids. And stop trying to look up my kilt.

Watch this space for further revelations. For now, suffice to say that in Florida back in 2000 I fronted a band called the Swinging Chads.

It’s all connected.