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Hail to the Cokehead

by J. Orlin Grabbe


"One of the more interesting aspects of the opposition's efforts has been their obsession with my wife."
--Bill Clinton, West Palm Beach, Florida, November 3, 1996.

It's true. I am obsessed with Hillary. Gennifer Flowers quoted Bill as saying of Hillary: "That woman's eaten more pussy than I have." Well, frankly, I'm jealous. I also find it noteworthy that Hillary's been trying to kill a friend of mine. But never mind that.

If you want to know the truth, I'm even more obsessed with Bill. He's hard to figure. Someone once told me you can never understand a person until you've first walked a mile in his shoes. So I've been trying to do just that.

I decorated my apartment as a total Bill immersion chamber--a technique Jean Houston taught me. Everything was in place. There were the five lines of cocaine, carefully laid out on the coffee table beside the Styrofoam box of half-eaten fries. There was Dee Dee on her knees, her mouth open. Across the room stood Hillary, glaring, a candle for Eleanor Roosevelt in one hand and an unidentified piece of aerial furniture in the other--her forearm a launch pad poised in my direction. In a cage in the corner crouched an anonymous political advisor frantically working on his grunted denials.

The phone rang. It was John Huang. "Today I raised another $500,000, Sir."

"Wonderful, John, my Asian-American friend. That'll just about pay the legal bill needed to explain the last five million you raised. Good work."

"Thank you, Sir."

"You know, John, some people would find it uncomfortable talking to an Asian-American on the phone like I'm doing right now. And that's not right."

"You are a true American, Mr. President."

I hung up the phone. The technique was working already. I looked at the cold french fries. Then I looked at the red lips hovering before me. "Just a minute, Dee. Have to take my medicine first."

Where was that damned straw?

"Hey. George. Hose." He tossed me a short stub of plastic. I vacuumed up one line into the right nostril. Damn if it didn't feel good to be President. "Get the Pentagon on the phone," I yelled at the cage. "I have a mind to bomb Iraq tomorrow."

Medical records be damned, I thought, shifting the straw to the left nostril and cleaning another line off the table. Ummmm, good. I was ready for Dee.

"Do you still think of Paula Jones, while I'm doing this?" Dee mumbled between ministrations. "No, Dee, you know you're the best," I replied. That bitch Jones-- who did she think she was? Well, too bad, honey. Now you'll never get to brag to your friends you did the future POTUS. Nah, nah, nuh, nah, nah.

I dodged the ashtray that sailed at me from Hillary's direction.

"You and your bimbos," she screamed.

"They're a damned sight better looking that yours, honey," I retorted. "And you have something in common with Robert Strauss. Why don't you go amuse yourself with the monkey in the cage?"

"Maybe I already have," she said. I couldn't tell if she was serious or not, but by then Dee's head was bobbing furiously and I didn't care one way or another.

The phone rang. "What is it?" I answered, somewhat testily. "Louie Freeh here, Sir. Starr's just obtained another indictment from the grand jury. I think it's Don Tyson, Sir, or one of his relatives."

"What kind of chicken shit is this? You told me your boys would handle everything--scare off the witnesses, bury any loose ends. Starting back with Vince Foster. Now I hear even Hillary's indicted." That ought to keep her in line, I thought, looking across the room.

"Well, Starr finally weeded out most of the trustworthy ones, Sir. Besides, we barely get one scandal buried, and you've done created another one."

Freeh was on his high horse. I would have to do something about that.

"Say, Louie, I was talking to Giroir the other day, and we was thinking maybe you would like a nice position with Entergy when you retire. Maybe head of security and political consultant."

"Would I have to live in Little Rock, or Louisiana?"

What a jerk. "No, Louie, you could handle things right here in Washington, I'm sure. Be a fixer, like Beryl Anthony."

"That sounds nice, Mr. President. I'll sure give it some thought."

"Now get that damned Starr off my back," I ejaculated into the phone, slamming it down.

"What the matter, baby. Are you tired?" Dee asked.

"No, you just keep working, honey. I've got me some thinking to do."

Damn all those investigating committees to hell. Well, I would show them. I'm the come-back kid. Gotta keep truckin'. Raise more money. Pull more votes. With enough money and votes you can fix anything needs to be fixed. Like that U.S. attorney down in Lexington. Damn that Chuck anyway. We was once friends. Then there's Jackson Stephens. He's been pulling away--thinks I'm dragging him down the tubes. Maybe I can appoint him Ambassador to Indonesia. Make him look good. Send him where he can do a little business and keep on eye on those Riadys.

The crouched figure interrupted my thoughts. "I have the Pentagon on the line, Sir."

"Well, get off your ass and bring that phone over here, George. Here, Dee, I need to sit on the floor where I can reach another line. Can't let Cali's finest go to waste. Maybe you can crawl around and under the coffee table here." I sucked up another half line. The coke was working. Dee was working. Nixon was right. They don't pay you much at this job. But the fringe benefits are wonderful.

"We still got those Stealth down there in Bahrain?" I asked the four-star.

"Yes, Sir. With all their maintenance crews and equipment. It's costing us hundred of millions of dollars just them sitting on the ground."

"Well, I've been thinking. If we can find the right Middle Eastern country to bomb, it'll please the voters, and that country's money men will rush forward with donations to bring about a change of policy. I was thinking of Iraq, but we've pretty much milked the Chaldean community up in Michigan dry. Got any ideas, General?"

"Well, there's always Israel, Sir. Remember how you said you wanted to make the Middle East a nuclear- free zone? We could bomb that nuclear facility at Dimona. It's all out in the desert where no one else will get harmed. And I hear those people have a lot of money in Hollywood and New York."

Now there was a thought. I liked this guy. My kind of man. Reinventing the military. Making me rich.

"Good thinking, General. But I'm not sure it's a good idea. Barbara Steisand wouldn't talk to me for a week, and Hillary would have to go to lunch all by herself. If you get any other ideas, you let me know."

I leaned back against the couch, closing my eyes. "Is it true, Dee, you did Vince Foster the day he died?"

"Mrumfh," she said. I looked up across the room. Hillary was sitting down now. Looking a little tired.

"Honey, what are we going to do about this Starr thing?" I asked.

"We could kill him," she said matter-of-factly.

She was the practical type. Couldn't make speeches worth a damn, though. "I'll leave it all in your capable hands, honey," I said, reaching for the straw.

November 6, 1996
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