I’m laughing when not growling about what Republicans, rather pathetically, are praying is true about me, that I’m fat and sickly and incapable of campaigning a week much less a year, and my book is selling poorly, and, most outrageously, that both the ghostly and earthly presence of Monica Lewinsky will preclude me from defeating any conservative opponent in the presidential election of 2016.
Let me first suppress the barks about my book, “Hard Choices,” which is now atop the New York Times Hardcover Nonfiction list. The usual blabbermouths had said my publisher squandered fourteen million on a dud. Since critics can’t guffaw about sales anymore, they’re lambasting the content, calling it boring, evasive, and self-promoting. Of course it is. I’m running for president. I can’t write an exciting and balanced tell-all tome. That’s not something even ex-presidents do.
Now let’s deal with my health. Despite panting predictions of my demise due to a 2012 slip that led to a concussion and cerebral blood clot, I guarantee I’m now strong as an ox but not nearly as big and don’t appreciate people saying so. I’m certainly a lot trimmer than Monica Lewinsky. And that’s really why I’m writing. I want the American people, and in fact everyone in the world, to know I’m a gun-loving, ass-stomping, ultra-religious stud who has tenaciously defended the United States and Libya and many other countries, as well as my honor, and will do so again in the highest office in the land. You don’t believe I’m tough enough, ask Monica Lewinsky.
I knew what was going on. Bill’s charm and good looks overpowered the ladies, and I accepted that. Frankly, I was amazed I had such a man and determined to keep him so ignored scores, perhaps hundreds, of those he seduced and in many cases those who chased him down. I could take it long as Bill was reasonably subtle. In the mid-nineties I ignored Monica Lewinsky even after whispers and my intuition indicated she and Bill were playing under the presidential desk and in hallways and bathrooms. I would’ve ignored her forever but a personal emergency one afternoon forced me to dash unannounced into the Oval Office where Lewinsky lay, legs elevated from the sofa, and Bill, standing naked, held a moist cigar in his left hand.
I screamed, “Jesus Christ Almighty,” and sprinted at them and left hooked Bill to his soft right side and came upstairs with a rage-enhanced left to his temple, staggering him, before I planted a high heel in his groin, sending him to the carpet.
“Get your fat ass dressed, and I’ll have my chief of staff send down the boxing gloves,” I told Lewinsky.
“Gloves?” she said, slipping on panties. “Guess you’re too old for more elemental combat.”
At the time I was fifty, still in my fighting prime, and unworried by a blubbery loon of twenty-four. After Lewinsky put her bra on, she said, “I’m ready. The winner gets Bill.” He was in the fetal position, groaning.
I stepped out of my shoes and over my husband, ducked inside, and came up with a left hook that never reached Lewinsky’s head as she nailed my forehead with a straight right. I won’t bullshit. That was the hardest blow I’d received since some mule suckered me in the showers at Wellesley. I got up from the wet floor then, and mauled my attacker. This time I didn’t go down, just saw yellow as my ears rang, and grabbed Lewinsky by the back of each arm, between elbows and biceps, and tried to snap her bones but she jerked free and fired a right I ducked before countering with a left hook to her flabby body, just like my first bomb against Bill. Lewinsky grabbed her right side with both hands, gasping, and like a major league pitcher I wound up and hammered her open mouth with a roundhouse right, sending her back onto the defamed sofa where she moaned as I said, “This time, you’ll be allowed to walk out of here.”
“There won’t be a next, I promise.”
I hate excuses much as I hate weak people but I’ve got to say that I’m in my late sixties and will be almost seventy when I become president and still taking blood thinners because of that old concussion and clot so probably shouldn’t kick ass anymore or, rather, risk having my bell rung. That’ll be okay. You ever see a male president brawl.