The twilight of the hogs: It is time to flush the toilet

Published 18 years ago -  - 18y ago 40

It’s Götterdämmerung on Pennsylvania Avenue – the beginning of the end of the worst Administration in history. The malignant cyst of Clintonism is about to be excised from the body politic. It remains only for Bill Clinton’s official portrait to be completed by the police artist who seems to be having a little trouble with how long to make the horns. We may yet see the end of Bill Clinton (who came to finish the job Jim Jones started on the losers he lured down to Guyana) and Hillary Clinton (the Mommie Dearest of American politics.) The cravenness of Congress, the duplicity of the media, and the greed of minorities, has encouraged the Clintons to make decency an orphan in America.Putting Bill Clinton in the White House is like turning Charles and Patsy Ramsey loose in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Clinton is no more suited to be a President than Sammy “The Bull” Gravano is to be a bank examiner. Clinton claiming credit for the prosperity of the people of the inner city approximates Hitler dropping in at Auschwitz and asking the Jews if they are better off now than they were four years ago.

It is expected, Clinton will either go to Hollywood or back to rural Arkansas where he can make a living teaching pigs how to deal cards off the bottom of the deck. Currently Hillary is attempting to prove to the people of New York State what they really need is to be represented not by a Senator but by a Czarina in a pants suit. Of course, Hillary is looking ahead to running for President so the Clintons can get a second chance at giving the United States a financial hernia. If she’s depending on her charisma, she’s not home free. The bitch could pry open a can of sardines with her smile. Had she been around back then, Hillary would have laced more people’s booze with strychnine than Lucrezia Borgia – and after they did a header off their barstools she would have instructed the bartender, “Separate checks.”In 1992, for all intents and purposes, in Arkansas, the rectum of the nation, the Constitution of the United States was suspended the moment Bubba announced “Two for the price of one.” This brace of serpents taught us not to make the same mistake twice. In fact, either one of them alone taught us not to make the same mistake once.

Looking back at the unpleasantness at the OK Corral, it is apparent that the Clintons are worse than the Clantons. The sheer viciousness of their characters has caused this ungodly two-fer to cross over an aesthetic Rubicon into sheer grotesquerie. The movers that cart their plunder out of the White House will be doing God’s work. (I would suggest the services of The Apocalypse Van Lines.) Satan is already preparing a welcome wagon, squeezing hot lava through icing cornucopias onto Ritz crackers.

The only valuable service Clinton could render the nation as he leaves the White House, is to take the White House Press Corps with him, so that we no longer have to listen to them force feed the public with what a great brand of bullshit Bubba works his deceits. Clinton’s so-called slick palaver was best described by Sam Spade in the movie “The Maltese Falcon”, when he said, “The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.” The media will press its case endlessly that Bill Clinton is a political genius, but when the history of his administration is written, nothing will stand out about Clinton except his curious ability to hoodwink Jews who should know better.

Still, we cannot wave bye bye to this diabolical duo without presenting two depressed points of the Clinton Administration, either of which is lower than the place where a spelunker applies his toilet paper.


It is said the apple does not fall far from the tree. In Chelsea Clinton’s case the apple did not fall far from the worm.

Just when you thought there were no more usurpation of power to be attempted from the Clinton clan along comes Chelsea. Not content to be merely the door prize at Camp David, this presumptuous insect sat in on “the peace talks”, diddling with Destiny, and giving her father a brat’s eye views of the ongoing tragedy in the Middle East. Chelsea’s inclusion in the conference is yet another of Bill Clinton’s juicy expectorations in the face of America. Chelsea carried a clipboard as the baton of her authority, and kept a set of crayons at the ready should her da-da ask her to announce the success of the negotiations by rushing to Jerusalem to draw a happy face on the Wailing Wall. [Note: Some will remember, a few short years ago this twerpette refused to ride in a limo with a General because “Our family doesn’t like the military.”]

Apparently, while the world’s back was turned, the Clintons moved Chelsea from a prop to a pawn. It should be noted, since everyone in the White House performs a meaningless function, careerists have no upward mobility, and even all the bureaucrats’ bowels move laterally. In allowing herself to be used as a political cat’s paw by her parents, Chelsea made Human Existence her plaything. Her parents’ hegemony required foreign diplomats to give her deference. The negotiations might have had a better chance of success if Clinton had split the difference and allowed Henry Kissinger to “sit in” wearing a training bra.

It did not contribute much to the chances of the conference’s success to have in attendance a participant with an expression of perpetual astonishment and the aimless demeanor of a strayed heifer. Ultimately, the failure at the Camp David Conference may well be attributed to the objections of both Yasser Arafat and Ehud Barak to Bubba trying to re-name the agreement (at Chelsea’s whim) The Pippi Longstocking Accords.

No one elected Hillary anything, and in this eleventh hour of the Clinton regime, the assumption of power by Chelsea Clinton as twerp-without-portfolio is intolerable. For her brazenness she forfeits any claim to our nation’s affection or respect. Henceforth, Americans should be as much at liberty to comment on Chelsea Clinton’s hairdo as on Don King’s. Ergo, I unilaterally declare the moratorium on making sport of Chelsea Clinton, the poster child for the Bad Hair Day, to be officially at an end. To no one’s surprise this graceless, bland-looking gink of a child grew up to look like David Gergen in a fright wig. The natural convex matrix of her countenance makes her look normally the way your own reflection appears in an aluminum coffeepot.

Chelsea’s hair does not require styling, it needs medical attention. Her coiffure could best be described as spontaneous accumulation. On her better days she looks like she was whittled by a mad German clockmaker. A retarded carpenter could arrange wood shavings more attractively. It’s reasonable Chelsea inherited her father’s genes for gnarled hair in that the crimped filaments on Bubba’s head could be described as “frizzy.” When asked if word frizzy could describe his hair, Bill Clinton replied, “It depends what the meaning of “frizz” is.

The Clintons consider their daughter, like everybody, just another altar victim to be sacrificed to their careers. If Hillary feels the inner city vote slipping away she can be expected to play her trump card by announcing the Chelsea Clinton/Rodney King nuptials.

Chelsea’s tenure in the White House has been an ongoing Cook’s Tour of the world at taxpayer’s expense. While inner city children starve, Chelsea Clinton was being trundled around the world on the Air Force One (at a cost of millions) like a spoiled cupcake on the national pastry cart. Perhaps she travels so much because she needs practice “waving bye bye.”

Despite the fact that Chelsea is now an adult, the national press portrays her as suffering from chronic virginity. The reality is, she is a twenty-year-old coed living in a liberated time when the lifestyles of her peers would embarrass the Whore of Babylon. Still, the media continues to huddle around her in a “prevent defense.” It is not known why the liberal media is so much given to weaving a polymer chrysalis of chastity around Chelsea Clinton, particularly when she does nothing to reinforce their portrayal of her as a religious neophyte. The Goody Two Shoes façade is in direct opposition to the innumerable video clips of Chelsea walking to the presidential helicopter dressed as though she’s on her way to participate in a wet T-shirt contest. Bubba might consider her a missed opportunity – except in Arkansas where all-in-the-family opportunities are considered a rite of passage.

It is time for Chelsea too to go – and take her clenched coiffure with her.


Self-aggrandizement is the other impulse Bill Clinton is unable to resist. Obsessed with his legacy, Clinton looks around for meaningless ceremonies he can squeeze in between fundraisers. As his term clock ticks away, he is driven to ever more transparently hollow gestures in a futile effort to make the waning days of the Clinton interregnum appear meaningful. Thus he has taken to awarding medals, supposedly in recognition of the nobility that doesn’t exist within him.

Clinton does not appreciate that one cannot cover oneself with honor simply by placing oneself in proximity to heroes. In Bubba’s case, dispensing honors is like playing handball against a blanket. Nothing comes back. Devoid of glory of his own, he hopes the medals will fall on the ground, form a puddle of prestige and splash all over him. We are unclear why he awarded a medal to Jesse Jackson. We know that Lincoln freed the slaves. Likely, Jackson never freed a fly trapped against a windowpane. Clinton awarded a medal posthumously to Albert Shanker, (no one is ever too dead for Bubba to exploit) onetime head of the America Federation of Teachers, who did so much to dump American education into the ol’ porcelain receptacle. (Thanks to Clinton’s influence on the teachers’ unions, children are now taught Napoleon won the Battle of Woodstock.) To be sure, all this commerce in medallions is downhill from his canonization of Rosa Parks, but his legacy requires whatever “leg up” it can get. (It is expected Clinton will award Barney Frank The Presidential Medal of Mincing. Presumably, he will wear the ribbon in his hair.) It all proves any medal that comes from the hand of Bill Clinton cannot be too particular about who wears it.

The Pentagon is considering the formation of a military group in honor of Bill Clinton called the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell Don’t Laugh Division. Its proposed insignia – a chicken waving a white flag while relieving itself in a field of buttercups. In recognition Bubba’s decision to allow American soldiers to be used as guinea pigs, Secretary of Defense William Cohen may also form a unit called The Anthrax Division. Its insignia is a nicotine shoulder patch. Of course, it will be sent into battle without guns and wearing pink berets. Now, don’t we all feel safer?

As Bubba himself is devoid of honor, the only decorations he wears are said to be epidermal souvenirs that resist healing. Therefore, Clinton has arranged for Gore (assuming his election) to create special medals to be award to him for display in the Clinton Library. These special medals awarded by “President Gore” will enable America to remember Bill Clinton as a kind of Audie Murphy of Criminality, Treason and Perversion. Among his decorations will be:

The Purple Zipper
The Deserter’s Cross
The Bronze Condom
The Arsenio Hall Medal of Saxophone Noise
The Liars Badge
The Arkansas Silver Cow Chip
The Rude Conduct Medal
The Vietnam Medal for Absence
The Stained Sink Decoration
The Missing from Combat Citation
The Foreign Despot Suck-up Medal
The Legion of Treason
The Order of the Vanishing Stogie
The Congressional Medal of Styrofoam
The Cleavage of Dishonor
The Herpes Medal with Oak Leaf Blisters
and a French medal – The Crud de Guerre. (They were unable to get a French General to make the award because Clinton insisted on being kissed, not on the cheeks, but where the sun don’t shine. French Generals consider that below the call of duty.

The only display promised to the Clinton Library besides the spurious Gore testimonials, is a bronzed outhouse tipped over by Clinton in his youth. Other than that, all visitors will be aware of is the low moan of the wind as tumbleweed blows through the barren and desolate galleries.

It is time for the Clintons to go. Or as that unhappy sea Captain once put it – “Will the last passenger to abandon the Titanic please turn off the lights?”

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