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Conservative Political Commentary

Quote of the Day

Lady Liberty

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.


Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Bill Confesses to Hillary (Early Draft from "My Life")
posted by Tom

It was three a.m., and the bedroom was dark, dark as a wealthy Republican’s heart. Hillary was asleep beside me. I had been listening to her snore for what seemed like an eternity (but everything with Hillary seemed like an eternity). It sounded like a zipper opening and closing over and over again. I sat up in bed and turned on the light.

Here I was, the first Black President of the United States, adored by millions, and what had it come to? A Grand Jury subpoena. I was to be interrogated later that day, and the questions wouldn't be like those softballs I was used to in press conferences, where friends like Wolf and Helen and other media sycophants praised me for bringing the American economy back from the brink of a second Great Depression, for rescuing hundreds of thousands from poverty, for slashing deficits, for inspiring a shitty John Travolta movie. No, I was going to be grilled by prosecutors about "that woman, Ms. Lewinsky."

As I sat on my side of the bed watching Hillary sleep, I realized I had to tell her the truth. Yes, damn it, the truth. Whatever that meant. She didn’t know the truth. Ever since Drudge first broke the story after I convinced Newsweek to spike it, I had succeeded in keeping the truth from her. With the help of my staff, my friends in the media, dozens of lawyers and other hangers-on, I made Hillary believe that Ms. Lewinsky was a stalker who had invented all of that stuff in her telephone calls to Linda Tripp because I, the Alpha Male, had rejected her advances on numerous occasions.

Hillary, the love of my life, the mother of my child, the woman once named one of the top 100 lawyers in the country by the ABA despite the fact she never tried a case of any importance, wasn't the least suspicious or even curious about how a loon like "that woman" ever got a job in the White House in the first place, let alone access to the President. She never admonished the staff for their lackadaisical screening process.

Of course, she never asked why the Oval Office door was locked when Eleanor came to visit. She would stand out there for 20 minutes or more, pounding on the door, frantically yelling, "Bill, are you all right?!"

"Yeah," I replied. "Oh, yeah, baby, yeah…"

Once I allayed her fears, she either went back to the White House kitchen to bake the cookies we loved so much or retreated into her private office, where she shredded documents to the music of Tammy Wynette.

But that was my girl. She trusted me implicitly. She was confident that my affairs with Gennifer Flowers and the other women we counted among the "problems in our marriage" in that "60 Minutes" interview back in 1992, the one that rescued my bid to become the first Black President of the United States, were a thing of the past. She was sure my tomcat days had ended once I got into the White House. Yes, only Hillary would have believed a compulsive adulterer who used his authority and celebrity as Attorney General and later Governor of Arkansas to pick up chicks would never use the Presidency of the United States in that way. Is it any wonder I could never leave her for a Gennifer, or a Dolly, or even a Ms. Lewinsky?

It had been so easy to fool this quintessential feminist ("Is there an Alpha Female?" I wondered as I watched her sleep), this brilliant, analytical woman, whom many saw as Eleanor Roosevelt, Jacqueline Kennedy, and Rosalyn Carter all rolled into one (yes, it’s true she was that fat, still she was my wife) that I almost felt - dare I say it? - guilty. Many said she was more qualified than I to occupy that sacred Oval Office where I had betrayed our vows numerous times, but knowing how gullible she was, I thought to myself, "No, not President. She’d make a great Senator, though."

The entire country knew I had diddled "that woman, Ms. Lewinsky." Our friends knew it. Our own daughter knew it. But Hillary, one of the top 100 lawyers in the country at one time, qualified to become the first female President of the United States (and if I could get her to take up the saxophone, the first Black female President of the United States), never suspected for an instant that it might be true. She was so unsuspecting, in fact, that in one of those exquisitely controlled interviews only Hillary can give after pre-screening all of the questions, she told our dear, dear friend in the media, Matt Lauer, that a President having sex with an intern half his age and lying about it under oath in a civil case is a serious matter, and the American people have a right to know about it. But, she told Matt (who drooled less than usual during that interview), the American people were going to find out it wasn’t true, that her husband was the victim of a "vast right-wing conspiracy."

As I watched her sleep the sleep of the innocent, I couldn't help but think, "Who better represents American feminism than this idiot?" It brought tears to my eyes, and I hadn’t laughed much during those trying months.

Rain started beating against the bedroom window like rain against a bedroom window. In the middle of a particularly loud snore, I shook her gently. She snorted, gagged, but still didn’t wake up. I continued shaking her as you would shake one who refuses to wake up, with my hands. She finally opened her eyes when blood started trickling from her ears. She looked at me as any woman would look at a man who had just given her a cerebral hemorrhage.

“Huh?" she said, a bit dazed. "W-what? Vince?"

“No, my love," I said, taking her in my arms. "It’s me, Bill. I’m sorry, my love, but I had to wake you."

“B-Bill? Since when do I have to be awake for sex?"

“No, my beautiful and brilliant Esquirette," I said, caressing her matted hair as one would brush a horse’s mane. "I have something I must tell you."

I drew her closer.

"It’s true, my dearest. It's all true. I had relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky."

I held her tightly against my chest.

"They weren’t sexual relations according to the definition accepted in the federal courts, but they were relations. Of a sort. They did entail contact with the genitals, lips, tongue, and/or anus of another. Kind of."

She mumbled something, and I squeezed her tighter.

"Oh, my love," I went on, with the confidence of a man accustomed to talking to liberal democratic women who were half-asleep and willing to buy anything I said, "she tempted me, and in a weak moment, when I was overcome by the burdens of the Office of the Presidency, I gave in. She sought my manhood, sweetcakes, and I gave it to her. She smoked it like a cheap cigar, you might say."

I held her as tightly as I ever held her in my life (though not as tightly as Gennifer, whose casabas used to feel better pressed against me) and wailed, "Can you ever forgive me, my love?"

“I – I can’t – breathe," she gasped, and went limp in my arms.

The truth had been too much for her. I had shocked her into unconsciousness. I didn’t revive her because I knew she needed her sleep. We both needed sleep. I would be giving my testimony later in the morning. She would be addressing the Washington D.C. chapter of Women United Against All Forms of Humor. There would be plenty of time to discuss "that woman, Ms. Lewinsky" over morning coffee, and now that Hillary knew the truth, she could be more helpful in preparing my evasive answers before the Grand Jury. She was always better at protecting me when she knew exactly what to hide.

I slept like a baby.

posted by Tom | 6/22/2004 07:15:00 AM
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Anonymous Anonymous said...

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8:44 AM, June 25, 2004  

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