A PRS Operative found himself in the right place at the right time when Senator Hillary Clinton made a rare appearance at her and Bill’s home in Chappaqua, New York. Here is a transcript of the sidewalk interview.
PRS: Senator Clinton, PRS here. Do you have a moment for a few questions?
HC: PRS? What is that?
PRS: It’s a blog, Ma’am.
HC: Are you some kind of wiseass asking me if I have a moment? You think just because I’m no longer in the race I have lots of time on my hands? I hate wiseass guys like you.
PRS: No, I asked if you had a moment, because I was trying to be polite. I didn’t want to just blurt out questions like some rude reporters do.
HC: Oh, sorry. I misunderstood. I’m a bit testy these days, as you can imagine.
PRS: Is that because of how the primary election turned out.
HC: Damned straight, but it’s also these piles.
PRS: Piles? Piles of what?
HC: Piles, dammit! You know, hemorrhoids. I feel like I’ve got a grape vine growing from my ass. It’s from all that time sitting on planes and being constipated from eating all that shitty food during the campaign. Hell, damned near every day I spent six or seven hours on a plane and ate two or three pizzas.
PRS: That sounds pretty bad.
HC: It’s worse than you think. You know, when you finally get off the plane and move around a little, you feel like you have to take a wicked crap. So you say to your handlers, “Give me a minute so I can go to the ladies room.” They say, “Sorry Senator, we’re already late for the next appearance.” So you squeeze your butt cheeks together and do the speech. This shit goes on all day, so at the end of the day when you finally get a chance to sit down on the toilet for some serious shittage, nothing happens. So, you squeeze and push until your eyeballs are about to pop out and still nothing happens. This goes on for days until all the squeezing, pushing and eye popping results in piles the size of golf balls.
PRS: So, your detractors who, during your campaign, said that you were full of shit were technically correct.
HC: Oh, you are a wiseass, after all.
PRS: Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. How about after our chat I go pick you up a tube of Preparation H?
HC: Actually, it was pretty funny, and as for the Preparation H, no need to bother. I’ve got the industrial size tube in the house.
PRS: I can imagine that losing the primary election is a pretty depressing thing. What have you been doing to keep your spirits up?
HC: I smoke lots of weed and spit a lot at a big picture of Obama I have hanging in the house.
PRS: Spitting on a picture? That can be pretty messy, no?
HC: No problem. I make Bill clean it up.
PRS: Speaking of Bill … I mean, President Clinton, is there any chance I could have a word or two with him?
HC: Sorry. He can’t speak at the moment.
PRS: I take it then that he’s very busy?
HC: No, he’s handcuffed to the kitchen chair and the gag ball makes talking impossible. Son of a bitch had it coming.
PRS: So, you didn’t think that he was an asset to your campaign?
HC: Asset? Please. Any more questions? My ass in on fire.
PRS: Just one more question. With hindsight, if you could change one thing about your campaign, what would it be?
HC: My tits.
PRS: Your … excuse me … tits?
HC: Yeah, I should have gotten a boob job before all the campaign shit started. I’d have gotten a big set of double D’s. Men really love a big set of knockers. That would have put me over the top for shit sure.
PRS: Thank you for your time, Senator.
HC: No problem. Ouch!! Goddamned piles.