What's ahead for Bill Clinton

Kevin Cowherd

November 06, 1992|By Kevin Cowherd

A mid-autumn night's dream:

Morning in America. Sunlight streams through an open window. Birds chirp merrily. Children frolic in a lush field. Oh, look, here's me and Hillary and little Chelsea in the White House! Hillary's throwing her headband at the maid and shrieking: "I said we'd have coffee in the Blue Room!"

Just like in Little Rock.

God, I love that woman!

Look, here comes Ross Perot for a visit. He's stepping out of his limo. Wearing a big smile. Get outta here, you wacko little creep! tTC I don't have to be nice to you anymore! I'm the president! The president!

Ross Perot, Ross Perot . . . go back to Neptune or whatever planet you're from, fella! Boy, he gets me worked up!

Lemme sit down at this desk . . . tackle the deficit. Hmmm, this looks more complicated than I thought. Lot of paperwork. Maybe I'll go for a jog. See the people. Press the flesh.

Or maybe I'll go for a Big Mac. Is there a McDonald's in this town? One where you don't need a bullet-proof vest to walk up to the counter?

Look, here's Chelsea. Little Chelsea, who never says boo. Only she . . . she's screaming at me. In the Lincoln Room, of all places. Says she wants to join the Hare Krishnas. Shaving her head, badgering strangers in airports, banging a tambourine at intersections . . . that's all she wants out of life.

God in heaven. All Amy Carter did was sneak a few Marlboros. And date Ozzie Osbourne.

Or maybe that was the Reagans' girl. You see one dysfunctional family, you've seen them all.

Look, here comes Al Gore. Now what the devil is he doing? He . . . he's hugging every tree in the driveway! Bush had it right about Gore: Ozone Man. Head in the clouds. Barney Fife's brain in Superman's body.

And Tipper. Don't get me started on Tipper. What's with that woman?! Does she ever shut up? Ask her for the time, she tells you who made the watch.

Look, I'm all for bubbly and upbeat. But it's like "Come up for air, Tipper!"

Don't get me wrong -- Hillary has her faults, too. She can be a loose cannon. And I keep telling her: Don't carry the bullwhip when you're addressing the staff.

Sure, Nancy Reagan did it. But that doesn't make it right.

But Hillary looks like Jeanne Kirkpatrick compared to Tipper. Tipper's got to chill. I don't know how Al stands it. Maybe that's why he's so goofy.

Oh, geez, here comes Jesse Jackson. Maybe if I hide behind the drapes he won't . . . dang! Too late. Stop poking me in the chest with your finger, Jesse! What do you mean, I owe you? Owe you what?!

Someone throw this man out! Who does he think he . . . where's the Secret Service when you need them?!

This is protection?! I'd feel safer with a few of those rent-a-cops from the mall! Someone could wheel a howitzer in here and you clowns wouldn't . . .

Jobs, jobs . . . gotta create jobs. That's what everyone tells me. We need jobs, Bill! We need jobs, Bill! Change the record, willya?

Speaking of which, what in God's name prompted me to take this job? I should have my head examined.

I had a nice little gig going in Little Rock. Backward state, few expectations, no pressure. Softball every evening in the park, couple of beers with the guys afterward, catch a half-hour of "Cheers" and hit the sack, Jack.

That was living! This . . . this is like what Terry Anderson went through. Like being handcuffed to a radiator somewhere in Lebanon. How did Reagan stand it for eight years? They'd find me hanging from the shower nozzle after eight years. I'm serious.

Well, what does the overseas correspondence bring? Let's see . . oh, great! Russia wants money. The Croatians want money. Mexico wants money.

What are we, the world's ATM?! Look, we don't have any money, OK! How many times do I have to tell you people? We go over and over and over the same old . . . dang!

I lost my voice! See what you did?! You made me lose my voice again!

God, I hate you people! I really do! I'm so sick and tired of "Mr. President, we want this" and "Mr. President, we want that!"

Sometimes I could just . . .

Whew. Gotta calm down. Heart's beating like a rabbit. Pulse rate is shooting through the roof.

It'll be OK, it'll be OK . . .


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