“Joystick has left the building. Joystick is en route” the secret Service agent murmured into his cufflink as Bill climbed into the gleaming limousine.

“I wonder why they made ‘Joystick’ my code name?” Bill wondered. “Is it because I bring happiness wherever Ah go?”

As the limo sped away he could still hear Ratso – sorry, Hillary’s voice: “Lissen, Billy boy; there’s lottsa rich, horned out society dames in this berg who’ll pay top dollar for a roll in the hay with a stud like youse (cough cough). Wid your looks and my, um, managerial skills wese could make a fortune, see?”

Bill saw. He propped his Frye booted feet up on the rich Cordoban leather of the backseat and adjusted his Stetson. He reached into the pocket of his buckskin jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“Mrs Medusa ‘Cookie’ Gorgonberg, 117 E 74th St. Apt 214” he read. “One hour special”.

The haunting harmonica music of Lou Adler –nar narnarnarnarnar nar nar – filled his ears until he switched off the radio.

The limo drew up to the curb and Bill cupped his hand and huffed into it for a quick breath check before stepping onto the rich burgundy red carpet outside the canopied entrance. “Okay Billy: show time” he muttered.

“Apartment 214” he told the uniformed doorman. “Gotta, um, deliver something”.

“Go right up, Mr, ah, President” murmured the flunkey. “You’re expected”.
**
“You from the agency?” demanded the stick thin matron, looking Bill up and down as if he was some food she was considering sending back. “I’m Cookie”.

“Right pleased to meet you, Ma’am” answered Bill, as he gazed around at the rich wall panelling carved from precious Bongo wood, the blazing chandeliers of finest Zirconium and the gold framed oil painting of a portly middle aged gentleman which dominated one wall.

“That’s Morris, my late husband” croaked Cookie Gorgonberg. “He was a jerk”.

“Yes, Ma’am”.

“Well, enough chit chat. The bedroom’s in there. Let’s go, Tex”.

“My name’s Bill, ma’am”.

“Yeah? Come on, get those pants off”.

“Um, okay”.

“And the boxers too”.

“Yes, Ma’am – so, what do you think? Pretty good huh?”

“I’ve seen worse. Just let me unhook get this damn girdle…okay, now you can pleasure me, Tex”.

“Um, Ah kinda thought maybe we could kinda get to know each other a little first” suggested Bill. “Maybe you’d like to hear about mah new life after leaving the White House?”

“Nope”.

“Or about mah global travels promoting humanitarian causes through the William J Clinton Foundation?

“Nuh uh. Time is money, Tex” said Cookie, tapping her Cartier wristwatch.

“Well, okay” conceded Bill. “Now Ah’ll just lie back and you can kneel down there and, you know, take care of me and afterwards Ah’ll give you a copy of ‘Leavers of Grass’ by Walt Whitman and then Ah’ll lie about what we done to the grand jury – how’s that sound?”

“Forget it, plow boy” snapped Cookie, shoving Bill backward on the enormous bed and straddling him. “You’re bought and paid for and you’re here to pleasure me, so get pleasuring – chop chop!”

“Pleasure…you?” stammered Bill, grappling with the unfamiliar concept. “Ah’m not sure Ah know how…”

Well, let’s see if you’re a fast learner, huh Tex?”
**
Later, Bill raised up on one elbow and gazed down on Cookie’s emacerated form. Poor old gal, he thought. She looks like a praying mantis. I guess she can’t afford to eat much.

“So – how was Ah?” he asked.

“I’ve had worse. The money’s in that envelope on the armoire. You better count it”.

“Shucks, Ah trust you ma’am” said Bill, making a mental note to wait until she was in the bathroom and count it then.

“Say Ma’am; who’s this handsome young fella?” asked Bill, picking up a gold framed photo of a smiling lad from the bedside table. “Your son? Grandson?”

“Nope. That’s me…back when I was still a guy”.

A. The media would skewer it.

B. He’s married and has morals.

I know a few women also who would jump at the opportunity for this, which just shows it’s all about image and not about reality.

Probably why you can’t see reality.

In fact, I’m gonna buy a hundred tickets as soon as I finish my post.

Loved Bill Clinton, read his autobiography. Love James Carville, read two of his books..

Glad I voted for Obama…Can’t wait to do it again..

Several interesting events? That’s a bit too vague to be reassuring. Hopefully the lucky guest is provided a body guard to keep the old horndog at bay in case things get too “interesting.”

Prize #1: Letting a fat old lying hillbilly do his best attempt at charm and possibly grope you for an entire day.

Prize #2: Have dinner with a different obnoxious loudmouth hillbilly liar.

Prize #3: Attend the American Idol finale.

I’m not the biggest Idol fan by far, but the choice is obvious to me. And the donor is bailing out a multi-millionaire who has never done a day’s work in her entire worthless life, after probably donating to her idiotic campaign in the first place. Lovely.

The confusing thing to me is how the Clintons haven’t figured out a way to get taxpayers to pay this loan off.