June 3, 2023

Will Someone Get This Man A Cigar And An Intern, Please?

With Ginormous Testicle Tuesday (or whatever they’re calling it this week) looming, if Hillary is going to seize the nomination, her campaign managers have to step up as they never have before. It’s one thing to protect your candidate from people and events without, but it’s quite another to protect them from people and events within–as anyone who handled Billy Carter, Roger Clinton, or Neil Bush will tell you.

Going into the 2008 Election, President Bill Clinton was touted as Hillary’s biggest asset. He was the party’s rock star, and a living memory of the halcyon days of peace, prosperity, budget surpluses, and blow jobs. As the campaign heats up and rounds the corner into South Carolina, the former President is looking more unhinged and less like one of the most respected Democratic Presidents of his century. If it’s chivalry, there’s a time and a place for it, and the kind of chivalry Bill Clinton is displaying this week is better suited to a man in a tavern defending his wife against two morons at the pool table who made a camel toe joke as she came out of the ladies room.

Bill calling Barack out into the parking lot is the last thing that Hillary needs right now. It’s not a winner either way–whether she stays inside on her barstool with a shot and a beer flirting with the bartender, or if she’s outside standing next to a Ford F-150 with a Camel Light hanging from her lips yelling, “Kick his ass, baby!!!”

There are a lot of Americans who want to see the Clintons in the White House again, but no one wants to see a bored retired husband coming out of his workshop and puttering around his wife’s domain, getting constantly underfoot, or yelling out from his Barcalounger.

While they’re not at DEFCON 1 yet, some damage control is mandatory, and now. The Arizona primary is February 5–and Super Bowl XLII is February 3. Put two platinum cards in his wallet, load an armada of 24/7-on-call town cars and limousines with liquor, and send Bill on a two-week Arizona campaign swing. Fifteen minutes in the Valley of the Sun and blondes with boob jobs landing like locusts, and they won’t hear a word from Bill until all the returns are in from Super Tuesday. They can talk on the phone every day or so (”Hey baby, how’d South Carolina go? Really–no, that’s two shots of Courvisier–sorry, baby. You won? That’s great, darlin’. I knew you could do it. Meetin’ lots of donors out here, just pressin’ the flesh, you know. Alright, I’ll talk to you Tuesday night, baby. Love you, too. Buh-bye…..Junior, rack ‘em up! Two shots each…”)

Come Super Tuesday, they send Hillary’s handlers to pull him out of a hotel room, wipe the lipstick off him, and bring him in for the victory celebration.

What–perish the thought of an adultery scandal? Please. This is Bill Clinton. Everyone’s understood this marriage for a long, long time. This is FDR and Eleanor on steroids. The worst that could happen with clearing Bill off the front lines would be a photo of a besotted Bill giving two thumbs up to a stripper wearing “Hillary ‘08″ stickers as pasties–and that would probably bring out a few new Democratic voters who would otherwise sit around paying for lap dances on election day.

It’s these kinds of big ideas that reinforce my conviction that I’m the most underpaid temp worker in this city.