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Those of you with access to television
sets, the Internet, or those machines that convert an ordinary
phone conversation into red, digital text readable by blind
folk are surely aware that Hillary Clinton released a new
memoir this week, titled "Living History." There
was a flood of publicity in all forms of media heralding the
arrival of the book, including a highly-rated primetime interview
with Barbara Walters, which I have on good authority ended
in a lipstick-smearing makeout session once the cameras stopped
rolling.
What you don't know is that I ghostwrote the book for Mrs.
Clinton, as my previous work convincingly faking the hopelessly
complicated, nuanced interior lives and personal histories
of Ann Heche and Kelly Osbourne caught Mrs. Clinton's attention.
Obviously, I am contractually bound from revealing myself
as ghostwriter of "Living History," under pain of
financial penalties exceeding the gross domestic product of
Uganda. But the first check bounced, so I figure that all
bets are off until the publishing house makes good on my fee
or reimburses me for the humiliating twenty-five dollar returned-check
fee levied by my financial institution.
I present to you a chapter deleted from the published version
of the book. To give you the context, the excerpt describes
the night that Bill Clinton revealed to her the inappropriate
nature of his relationship with Monica Lewinsky, a White House
intern that performed fellatio on him, clearly a violation
of office politics and the sanctity of his marriage vows.
You may remember Miss Lewinsky as the host of the recent Fox
reality smash-hit "Mr. Personality" and Bill Clinton
as the forty-second President of the United States.
------
I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. After months of reassuring
me that nothing inappropriate had happened between him and
That Fat Intern, and that his political adversaries were surely
just out to get him, Bill was admitting that Monica had been
blowing him under his desk in the Oval Office.
I know that saying she was "blowing him" is a bit
crass and a touch of salty language unbecoming for a former
First Lady and current Senator, but you must understand that
my world was rocked. I think that my exact words were "That
Fat Intern was blowing you?"
My mouth hung open in disbelief for what seemed like an eternity.
But Bill just looked me in the eyes across our bed, and for
a moment I remembered that aura of little-boy sexiness that
had first drawn me to him all those years ago at Yale Law
School.
And then I remembered that he'd let That Fat Intern suck him
off under his desk while attending to matters of national
importance, in clear violation of the fellatio embargo we'd
negotiated as my twentieth anniversary present. Sure, there
had been the Paula Joneses and Gennifer Flowerses and the
odd female professional golfer. This time he'd really crossed
the line. I'd been saving the under-the-desk trick for a special
occasion and to spice up our sex life, and now that was ruined
for us.
I was livid at being betrayed; moreover, it had taken me three
years to come up with the under-the-desk surprise idea. I'm
bad with gifts.
I'd spent years at his side as his partner, keeping his secrets
locked away and safe from public scrutiny. There had been
the weekly burlesque review starring George Stephanopolous
in a sequined dog collar and French maid outfit. The drunken
doomsday scenario simulations in which Pentagon mainframes
calculated the consequences of launching a small scale nuclear
attack on a Fairfax, Virginia Hooters where Bill's advances
were once rebuffed by a waitress named Sunny, who hadn't appreciated
his offer to give her some "hot topping for her cinnamon
buns." The White House lawn
Easter Egg hunt that ended in the sale of a cute, six year
old blonde girl to the Sultan of Brunei's wife farm.
But did I ever tell? No.
I decided I was going to get back at him for this latest,
galling infidelity. I won't say exactly how I began to even
the score to my satisfaction, but it involved a ride on Air
Force One with Martha Stewart, a bottle of my favorite wine,
and the realization that there is a very special kind of release
in exploring new territory with another super-powerful woman
with the same haircut. And we took Polaroids, scribbling,
"Bill, Wish you were here!" on the bottom with a
red Sharpie. I showed him the pictures and then instructed
the burliest member of our Secret Service detail, to make
sure Bill couldn't leave the office to relieve the massive
surge of sexual desire the pictures had surely roused in him.
As they say in Arkansas, I think "that learned him real
good."
------
Of course, Ms. Clinton did relate the Martha Stewart anecdote
in full, referring to a certain part of Ms. Stewart's anatomy
to a lotus blossom, but its omission was a stylistic decision
on my part.
If the next check from the publisher doesn't clear, you may
yet get to find out which parts Ms. Clinton are thought to
be like "two scoops of creamy, vanilla heaven."
It's okay to close your eyes and think about that one while
I make a call to the bank.
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Above: Carpetbagger label now has lesbian connotation
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