I’ve endured a lot of criticism lately for lying about the news and my experiences. There have been many, many investigations into my past and the stories I originally reported. And before this goes any further, I want to admit one of my boldest claims was also a lie: I did not assassinate the 35th President of the United States, John F. Kennedy.
November 17th, 1963. Every American knows where they were. But I was actually 2,500 miles away sitting in my crib in Elmira, New York.
Sure, I said I fired my rifle from the grassy knoll, hitting the Leader of the Free World in the head and fatally wounding him. I purported to have assassinated the most powerful man in the world, forever changing history.
I told the everyone I hesitated before pulling the trigger. My palms were sweating and I was breathing heavily. But when it came time to take the shot, everything slowed down. It was as though I was in an action movie. I discharged my weapon and Kennedy’s brains splattered all over his convertible.
I’ve been carrying the burden of this lie for a long time now. I first told someone I did it on the first day of kindergarten. I needed to make friends, so I exaggerated a little. Everyone does it. I remember my buddy Joey said his uncle was John Lennon, but all the kids soon learned that wasn’t true, either.
I kept the story going in college as well. My personal essay for my application was supposed to be about my life’s defining moment. Naturally, I chose to write about my role in one of the most important events of the 20th century.
Once I began reporting the news, I often said on-air that I was the second shooter. Audiences around the nation trusted me, truly believing that I was the killer.
But alas, I was three years old at the time. I was playing with my stuffed animals at home, maybe even sucking my thumb when the news broke. Actually, I might’ve been watching cartoons. It’s all a little hazy.