On my way to work, I received a Saint Bill Clinton update from my favorite liberal new organization, National Public Radio. I learned he has found a new outlet for his free time, which is to tackle the AIDs epidemic in Africa. In light of Saint Clinton’s international humanitarian efforts of late, many Talking Heads speculated that he was positioning himself for the United States Ambassadorship to the UN. Despite the perfection of such an appointment, Saint Clinton denied that he harbored such appetites and added that taking on such an important and public role would be viewed as a potential conflict with his wife, current New York Senator, former Arkansan, and future presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton.
St. Clinton’s denial of seeking a higher office struck a familiar chord with The Angry Czeck. Rather than concentrate on an expanding “In-Box” of billabe projects at work, The Angry Czeck was more compelled to reflect upon his conflicted relationship with St. Clinton, who seemed to be reinventing himself after eight years of holding the highest office on earth. But I saw that the smoldering core of classic Saint Clinton was still burning. The man who introduced us to the knowledge that “Jennifer” could be just as easily be spelled with a “G” was alive and well.
I remember the first post-presidential thing St. Clinton did (after collecting the condoms from the desk drawers of the Oval Office) was to set up a new office in, of all places, Harlem. Yo! St. Clinton! Of course, this was a calculated move to better cement the fact that he and his wife, Hillary, were not really hillbillies from Arkansas, but sophisticated New Yorkers. And if the Angry Czeck wasn’t bitter about the Clinton’s snubbing Arkansas before, he certainly was after catching all the photos of Hillary wearing Yankee baseball caps.
Hillary, seen here, stabbing Arkansans in the back with a deep-fried chicken bone.
Which is a nice segue into the first and only time I had personal contact with St. Clinton. The year was 1987 or 1988. My Angry Family and I were in Little Rock catching an Arkansas Travelers minor league baseball game. The Travelers were great to watch because there was always a good chance that Lady Dynamite was going to put on a between-innings performance. If you don’t remember Lady Dynamite, she was a buxom woman who wore a skimpy but patriotic outfit with a matching motorcycle helmet. Her talent was climbing inside a coffin and blowing herself up with TNT. Sometimes she blew off a great deal of her costume, which was exciting for a 13-year-old Angry Czeck.
While waiting for Lady Dynamite to make her explosive appearance, I happened to catch of glimpse of St. Clinton emerging from the breezeway. As Governor Saint Clinton, he wasn’t surrounded by security or overweight interns. In fact, St. Clinton appeared to be entirely alone, like he was just driving by Ray Winder Field in his Jeep Cherokee and decided to catch a few innings before going home to a Ice Cold Hillary. He stood confidently erect in his crisp dark suit, his black hair perfect and looking taller than he did on television, and not a soul approached him. Poor Saint Clinton stood in the stands behind home plate, looking woefully uncomfortable. It was like when you’re at a party in high school and some guy who graduated four years ago shows up wearing his letterman jacket – without a case of beer beneath his arm. You’re like, Man! Why aren’t you at home?
So my Angry Brother and I decided to make our introductions. Among voting-age members of the Angry Family, I believe Republican candidate and cadavar impersonator Frank White was the preferred choice for governor, but I always rather liked St. Clinton. He was young and energetic and he was once on the Phil Donahue Show. And this was years before people knew he conscripted State Troopers to round up loose chicks for him, or that he was also a closet saxophone player. How could you not like the guy?
An early photo of The Love Gov. Or, if you prefer, The Lovernor.
We approached St. Clinton with teenage bravado, unaware that at any moment an undercover security guy could have sprung from the seats to fire 50,000 volts from a stun gun into our bodies. Saint Clinton didn’t see us coming. He was scanning the box seats for valuable constituents. So when I said, “Hi, Gov!” he was caught just enough off guard to drop his eyes to me.
I stood with my hand outstretched, grinning the grin that always gets me into trouble. As soon as St. Clinton realized that he was being addressed by a 13 year-old and not some overweight, female technical college student, his welcome expression vanished from his face and he…he…PRETENDED NOT TO SEE ME!!!
What a horrible lesson for an angry teen to endure! I had to pretend that I just hadn’t been bitch-dissed by the Governor of Arkansas. My Angry Brother could not be fooled. He pointed and laughed and called me names. That’s not something you can put on your résumé either.
Several years later, Saint Clinton ran for re-election on the platform that he would not seek the Presidency. He was running for governor, damnitt! But hee-haw, the State of Arkansas was dubious. After all, this was the same man who embarrassed himself with a long and awkward speech during the 1988 Democratic Convention. But then again, this was also the same man who redeemed and charmed millions on the Tonight Show the next evening. (Remember? Saint Clinton emerged from the curtain and sat between Ed and Johnny, and Johnny pulled a huge hourglass from beneath his desk? Funny, no?) Then, as if the nation had not forgiven him already, Saint Clinton playing the saxophone to a studio of cheers. Saint Clinton, like it or not, was an American Idol, and deep down we knew Arkansas was too small for him. But we believed him anyway when he said he wouldn’t run for President, so we elected him governor again. Two years later, he announced his candidacy for the President of the United States.
“I said, ‘Elect me and I won’t run for President…of France!’ Now let’s jam!”
This news didn’t cotton well to Arkansans, who knew Saint Clinton was the only man protecting us from the corrupt rule of future prison inmate Jim Guy Tucker. People were unpacking the torches they hadn’t used since the Segregation days to march on the capitol. That’s when Saint Clinton devised his masterstroke!
Just in time for the morning news, Saint Clinton announced that he intended to spend the day touring Arkansas, pooling the people’s opinion and asking for forgiveness. Then, as the cameras rolled, St. Clinton leaped into a red Jeep Cherokee and disappeared over the horizon. Nobody knows where he went. But then, just in time for the five o’clock news, Saint Clinton’s motorcade of Jeep Cherokees reappeared over the horizon and halted before a bank of news cameras. Then the man himself, Saint Clinton, leaped out of a Jeep and declared, “The people of Arkansas have forgiven me!”
Now, the Angry Czeck suspects that if any real news organizations were on hand to witness such a circus, Saint Clinton might have been double-drop-kicked live by the British Bulldogs in between the weather and sports segments. But Little Rock news stations reacted as though they had just received word that Monster Trucking had replaced baseball as the National Pastime. Hee-haw! Arkansas had a bona fide candidate for president.
Anybody who cares to remember the early primaries in 1992 will recall that St. Clinton didn’t exactly steamroll his way to the Democratic Nomination. Things we Arkansans already knew about St. Clinton began to surface on a national platform. Soon, the entire world became familiar with names like Paula Jones and Gennifer Flowers. For the Angry Czeck, the embarrassment wasn’t that St. Clinton was a philandering playboy who employed State Troopers to round up babes. Nope. It was that he was jeopardizing his entire political career for skanks! Check out Jones and Flowers. They’re not prizes. Not even the drunkest Kennedy would consider a quickie from either one. Hell, even creepy Gary Hart managed to hook up with a hottie. Saint Clinton’s most disappointing quality was that his Chippie Standard was set entirely too low.
Imagine trading in your chips to the White House…for this!
Luckily, Saint Clinton used his Magic Saxophone to persuade voters to select him over Bush The Elder for President. You may recall that the first few months of Saint Clinton’s Administration didn’t go over so well. Hillary, forgetting that the First Lady is traditionally in charge of selecting table settings and writing memoirs in the person of the family kitty cat, charged ahead with an incredible program to save health care. The stunned nation watched in silence as Hillary offered the solution we were all waiting for: A Card! Everybody would have one! Here’s how it would work: When the doctor tells you it will cost $4,000,000 to sonic-blast the cancer out of your colon, you just had to whip out your Card, and the bill was paid! Presto. Why didn’t Bush The First think of this?
Interesting reaction Hillary received for her ambitious plan. At the time, Angry Czeck was working for a religious-nut lumberyard in Hot Springs. In addition to a steady exercise regimen of lugging sacks of Quikrete and hauling stacks of sheetrock, I received an occasional dose of Crazy Jesus Talk from my co-workers. Some people don’t respond well to Crazy Jesus Talk. Personally, I enjoyed Crazy Jesus Talk for the entertainment value, and later it would grant me special insight to a nation that would elect Bush The Inferior to two terms in office.
To appreciate the quality of Crazy Jesus Talk I absorbed in three years of working at the religious nut lumberyard, you have to appreciate the people I worked for. The lumberyard’s owner also doubled as a preacher of his own non-denominational church, which was located adjacent to the lumberyard. Sometimes, rather than make me lug treated lumber or heave sacks of roofing shingles, the owner would take me aside and attempt to convert me to his non-denomination. It was a paid day without lifting a damn thing. The owner was a nice guy, and very intelligent. You couldn’t get away with saying something stupid, like, “Do you know how many wars have been waged in the name of religion?” or my favorite, “God spelled backwards is Dog!” You had to be sharp, or you’d find yourself joining the Church of the Religious Nut.
The Church of the Religious Nut was always looking for a Sign of the Apocalypse. Most people might dread the End of Days, but not the Church of the Religious Nut, who viewed it with hand-clapping anticipation. They already narrowed down who was going to be the Anti-Christ. That would be The Pope. (You can imagine the look of stunned horror on each of their faces when, in a very All My Children-like moment, I revealed that I was Catholic.) Somehow, the Apocalypse would validate everything the Church of the Religious Nut stood for, which was of course, that everybody but them was going to Hell. So every time a Sign of the Apocalypse was revealed, it was met among them with knowing nods and exchanged glances pregnant with meaning.
“You, I love! But the rest of you can go to Hell!”
Apparently, one of the Signs of the Apocalypse was that all of mankind would be identified by a Mark of the Beast. Most people interpret this mark as a 666 stamped on the forehead. To the Church of the Religious Nut, Hillary Clinton’s all-inclusive healthcare card was good enough.
While the Church of the Religious Nut viewed this as good news, the rest of the nation was less receptive. Many in Washington questioned Hillary’s credentials, wondering aloud if she shouldn’t be giving Barbara Walters a televised tour of the Lincoln Bedroom rather than orchestrating sweeping healthcare reforms. Meanwhile, Saint Clinton stood quietly in the background, shrugging his shoulders and saying, “Shit! She found out about Paula! What can I do?”
For starters, he could stand around and be charming, which he did to great effect. Once a chastised Hillary was browbeaten into accepting her roll as Ribbon Cutter in Chief, Saint Clinton was finally allowed to fully pump his presidential penis into a number of programs not even the Angry Czeck can remember. I mean really. Can anybody recall one piece of policy Saint Clinton pushed through Congress?
Okay, I can think of one. At one point during St. Clinton’s Administration, a rash of church burnings raged across the United States. Many of these churches were predominately African-American. Immediately, racism became the arsonist. It was a tragedy not even the President of the United States could ignore. A grim-faced St. Clinton announced that every church that burned down due to arson would be re-built with government money! Burning a church was no longer classified as arson. It was a hate crime! Many Democrats cheered. Many Republicans too scared not to cheer cheered. Churches that were once cinders were now built anew. And when it was revealed that many of the destroyed churches were set ablaze by their own parishioners (whether by malice or by accident), well, it’s just government money, and we’ve got lots of that.
So maybe Saint Clinton wasn’t exactly carving his own tablet of history with the chisel of policy, but at least nothing was going too wrong while he was in office. To tell the truth, things were pretty damn good when St. Clinton was in charge. Gas was cheap. The economy was flying. There were jobs ahoy. We got into some disquieting scraps with the former Yugoslavia, and later recorded a Made for TV disaster with Somalia, but aside from a bomb going off in the basement of the World Trade Towers, we were doing okay. Hell, after that bomb thing at WTC, we blasted a few Iraqi pharmaceutical plants into rubble just to show the world we meant business. Saint Clinton was firm.
And by firm, I mean Saint Clinton had found a new intern. Once again, St. Clinton’s puzzlingly low standards brought shame to the nation. Jack Kennedy had Marylin Monroe. Saint Clinton settled for Monica Lewinsky. At least when JFK decided to roll the dice on his presidency, he shot for the moon. He was like, “Aw, hell! I’m the President! Get me Marylin Monroe!” Saint Clinton settles for anybody who’s nice to him.
In the Republicans vs. Saint Clinton’s Questionable Taste in Chicks, Exhibit Z
It is said that George Washington’s greatest accomplishment as President is something that he did not do, which was to agree to a third term in office. By limiting his rule to two terms, he ensured that our young nation would not become a dictatorship or monarchy, but a nation to which the people continuously elected fresh blood into office. Similarly, Saint Clinton’s greatest contribution to this nation’s fabric was not his policies, but by refusing to succumb to asinine demands to resign.
Even staunch conservatives must look back on the Lewinski Scandal as a time of complete Republican lunacy. Everywhere, Republicans found a high-horse and screamed “Impeach! Impeach!” For what? For having a bad marriage? For using his office to score with chunky young ladies? If France ever had a reason for heckling us, it was when “Independent” Council Kenneth Starr began his ridiculous investigation into Saint Clinton’s heroic struggles with monogamy.
Republicans sought to cripple Saint Clinton with their sanctimonious moral judgments and succeeded only in making him a saint. Their hypocrisy was exposed the moment Bush the Inferior took command and made the Oval Office into a factory for paranoia and quarter-truths. Conservatives blasted Saint Clinton’s sexual exploits as damaging the trust of the American people, but they are shamefully quiet in today’s tragic wake of grossly misappropriated executive powers. And yet, no lessons are learned. Today, gleeful Democrats openly applaud the indictments handed to Tom DeLay and Scooter Libby, failing to see that their public sneering is as unseemly as Kenneth Starr’s transparent, ham-fisted smear of the President. In the realm of politics, the players are all trolls, and we the American people are charged for paying the toll.
Several years removed from the land’s highest office, Saint Clinton has emerged as a man of character. By uniting with Bush the Elder, Saint Clinton has smudged party lines by using his star power to raise money for both Tsunami and Hurricane relief. (Really, was anything more unlikely than seeing Bush and Clinton appearing side-by-side in a commercial? And why didn’t they invite Carter?) Recently, St. Clinton initiated a foundation to combat AIDs in Africa. Does anybody imagine Bush the Inferior so benevolent once his term mercifully expires? Or do you envision a future where an aging Bush Junior is seen occasionally on television, arrogantly swinging a golf club?
It has been written that few American Presidents have been more conscious of their place in history than Saint Clinton. While Starr and his goons threatened to eclipse that history with a needless expenditure of the public’s wealth and time, Saint Clinton is working to restore his biography through deeds and hard work. Saint Clinton might have dissed the Angry Czeck many moons ago at Ray Winder Stadium, but he is forgiven by me.
And besides, he was probably only there to bang Lady Dynamite.