MEMO

From: The Seriously Honorable Hillary Rodham Clinton

To: The Morons on my Campaign Staff

Subject: Selma and Beyond

I’ve absolutely had it with you incompetent boobs!

Surely you’ve seen the news, you’ve heard those fascist bastards on the radio, and you’ve read those wing-nut bloggers all having a field day playing cuts from my speech in Selma. Oh yeah, they were having a pisser making fun of my Southern and black accents. I want you butt noses to know that it is all your goddamned fault.

At the outset, let me say that if I find out which one of you dumbshits retained that woman to teach me to talk black, I’ll fire your ass in a heartbeat. After hours of lessons the bitch told me that I sounded just like Wanda Sykes, and you bastards all nodded with approval. So, I went to Selma and did my best black schtick and I sounded like an asshole. Meanwhile Obama, was down the street talking black and kicking my ass. I want you to find out who taught Obama to talk black and pay him five times whatever Obama paid him.

I relied on you morons to do the advance work, and look what the hell happened! Apparently, I have do all the thinking around here. Therefore, so I don’t get blindsided on my next trip to the South, I want to see the following things accomplished, like, YESTERDAY:

1. Clothing: How do you expect me to relate to these southern knuckle walkers dressed in a goddamned New York City goddamned pants suit. I want to arrange for the purchase of several outfits of the type worn by this woman. This is a sure winner, but I sure as shit can’t depend on you Vassar and Radcliff dolts to see the obvious.

2. Recipes: A shitload of women wanted to talk to me about goddamned recipes! Jesus Christ! I haven’t cooked any goddamned thing since, well, never. Get me some goddamned recipes for stuff like squirrels, ham hocks, possum, black eyed peas and collards. Oh, and I need someone to tell me what the hell sweet tea and blush puppies are.

3. Catchy Phrases: I also want you sorry asses to put together a list of really quaint southern sayings for me to work in my conversations with these Neanderthals. You know, shit like, “Damn, it’s colder’n a well digger’s asshole.” and “Well, strip my gears and call me shiftless.”

I don’t want to hear any bullshit from any of you about these demands. Put down your goddamned Blackberries and get busy.

Oh, I almost forgot. I will be speaking in Chicago in a few weeks. Get that Zbignew Brrzezinski guy to call me. (Yeah, geniuses, he’s the guy who worked for Carter.) I want him to teach me how to talk with a Polish accent and tell me all about kielbasa and shit.

I know you are all losing significant amounts of sleep fretting about the current status of the epic battle between Jimbo and what apparently is the Mother-of-All-Colds. Here is the absolute latest skinny.

After endless badgering from many quarters, I finally paid a visit to “Doctor Doctor,” the de facto Team Doctor to the Usual Suspects.

He’s familiar with my routines. As such, being the gentleman and consummate professional that he is, he is patient with my customary flights of self-diagnosis and smartassed comments such as, “If you have a cure for the common cold, I wanna be your business partner. We’ll buy and sell Donald Trump.” He just smiles and goes about his business of checking my blood pressure, checking my lymph nodes, looking in my eyes, ears and down my throat, and listening to my lungs.

When he got to the lungs, he listened and then asked, “You didn’t notice the noises your lungs are making?” Truth is, I had noticed the strange hisses, crackles, pops and “wheeeeeeee” sounds they were making, and I can only assume that when heard through a stethoscope, my lungs must have sounded like a fuel dragster at the starting line.

Without asking my “learned” opinion, he directed that I immediately take a breathing test, presumably to make sure that I wasn’t in the process of suffocating. (The song ”Am I Blue?” comes to mind.) The good news is that, even though my lungs sound like a traffic accident, they are working fine, so there was no need to call the EMS guys.

He prescribed an antibiotic, heading off my anticipated “Antibiotics Don’t Work on Viruses” argument by explaining that the antibiotic will help, because these things are often accompanied by or can result in multiple infections. It was an extremely professional way of suggesting that I ought to consider putting a sock in my yap.

“Doctor Doctor” – He’s simply the best.

It’s Sunday, and the farookin’ cold is still hangin’ on. It should be a Comfy Chair and Book Day, but shortly I shall be heading off to the Post, where it is my turn to tend bar. From what I hear, several of the Usual Suspects are also similarly afflicted, so it promises to be a Genuine Wheezeatorium, with lots of hand washing.

It could be a long day.

Then again, maybe a couple hours with the Usuals will jolt my creativity meter off Dead Solid Zero.

It’s been a pretty rough week, and I still don’t feel well enough to spend more than a few minutes at the computer. But, in those few minutes, I found this over at Rodger’s place, and it cracked me up.

I needed that.

In the course of walking from Mr. Comfy Chair, Bankie and Book to the loo, I thought I would permit myself a few minutes of computer time to thank those who left good wishes here and in e-mails for my speedy recovery from the Demon Cold.

So, with that, here is an update:

1. Mucus. The Mucus Tsunami has considerably abated, for which my blown and wiped raw nose is most grateful. Still doing a bit of coughing and feeling less than chipper though, which is why I shall return to Mr. Comfy Chair as soon as I post this.

2. Jersey Politics. (Yes, Virginia, the subject of mucus does tend to lead naturally to thoughts of Jersey Politics.)

Governor Corzine, who apparently is seeking to become a High Priest in the Religion of Global Warming, is so pleased with having plunged Jersey into the abyss of global warming craziness, he is now urging that the Federal Government follow Jersey’s lead on further regulating the crap out people and businesses and creating a bloated, useless governmental bureaucracy and high taxes limiting emissions that contribute to global warming.

Imagine trying to keep a straight face while urging any governmental body, anywhere to follow the lead of New Jersey’s State Government?

Yes, that would be me.

If there were a market for the stuff, I would be in Fat City.

In the meantime, I shall deal with the watery eyes, hacking explosive coughing and feeling as if I had been hit by a bus.

Clearly the cold-induced head goo has not only plugged up my ears, but it also has lodged in the few remaining creativity portals in my cruller.

I think I shall do comfy chair, a bankie and a James Patterson novel — short chapters.

It’s about all that I can handle at the moment.

Unless you have been living in a cave, you know that former Vice President Al Gore won an Academy Award for his “documentary” concerning global warming. As you might imagine, Mr. Gore received numerous congratulatory e-mails and a few not so congratulatory ones.

PRS Operatives have obtained copies of several of those e-mails, which appear below.

Dear Al,

So now you’re Mr. Big Shot Academy Award winner?

Mazel Tov, NOT!!

As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a backstabbing swine.

Jerk.

Very truly yours,
Joe Lieberman

Dear Mr. Gore:

I received your recent letter in which you demanded a refund of the fee you paid for our Dale Carnegie course entitled “Developing an Engaging Personality”. You claim that you are entitled to a refund because you failed to successfully complete the course.

As our guaranty plainly states, if you fail to successfully complete the course, at your option, you may have a refund, or you can re-take the course at no charge. You opted to re-take the course, and, in fact, you have re-taken the course six times, and you failed each time.

Mr. Gore, enough is enough.

Sincerely,
J. William Attridge
President, Dale Carnegie, Inc.

P.S. Oh, congratulations on your award. You must have been a real live wire at those Hollywood parties.

Dear Mr. Gore:

We at the Mayo Clinic have received your inquiry concerning elective surgery.

I regret to inform you that medical science has yet to develop a surgical procedure for a personality transplant.

Have you considered a Dale Carnegie course?

Yours truly,

George A. Sommers, M.D.
Chief Medical Administrator
The Mayo Clinic

Dear Al:

Now that you’re swimming in cash, do you think you might finally settle up on the $275 thousand still outstanding for the legal fees you owe me for maintaining a straight face while I tried to sell that steaming batch of bullshit to the courts in 2000?

THIS IS YOUR FINAL NOTICE.

If I do not received payment in full within ten (10) days, I shall obtain a judgment against you in that amount and attach your private jet and SUVs.

Don’t mess with me, Al.

David Boise, Esq.

Dear Al,

CONGRATULATIONS!!! Your documentary was AWESOME!!!

I really like your style and the care you took in doing the necessary research. How about we collaborate on a documentary? It would be so AWESOME. I’m thinking of doing a film that will offer indisputable proof that the Bush family is comprised of aliens from a fascist planet in another galaxy. Sweet, no?

Call me when you get a chance. We can do dinner.

From one Oscar winner to another,

Michael Moore

Dear Al:

Any chance I could get a part in your next movie?

I could play Bill Clinton.

Very truly yours,
Charles Manson
Inmate #277654

Dear Al, Pal o’ Mine:

Got any tips for getting into the movie business?

I’m planning for my future.

Your pal,
John Kerry

Dear Asshole:

Now that you’re getting all this ink, don’t even THINK about telling your new Hollywood Best Pals to support anyone but me in 2008. Just so we’re clear, if you pull that shit, I’ll squash you like the pus sack you are. Tipper too.

Creep.

Hillary Clinton

You know? I was just telling someone the other day (while knocking on wood) that I had managed to avoid catching a cold so far this winter.

Maybe it was fake wood I knocked on.

Damn.

As you doubtless know, yesterday Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi called President Bush to complain about remarks that had been made by Vice President Cheney. PRS Operatives, ever vigilant, managed to obtain a transcript of the phone call.

RINGGGGGGG

Operator: Good afternoon. This is the White House. To whom may I direct your call?

Nancy: You can direct my call to the goddamned President, that’s who.

Operator: May I ask who is calling?

Nancy: Just tell him it’s Pelosi.

Operator: Is this about a pizza delivery?

Nancy: Pizza? Are you out of your goddamned mind?

Operator: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were the lady from the pizzeria. Lots of people play pranks and try to have pizzas delivered here.

Nancy: You idiot! I’m Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker in the goddamned House.

Operator: Oh, I see. May I ask what this in reference to?

Nancy: No, you may not. Just put that dumb son of a bitch on the phone.

Operator: Please hold while I transfer your call.

[Merle Haggard music plays over the phone]

Staff Member: Good afternoon. How may I help you?

Nancy: This is Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker in the goddamned House. I want to talk to the President, and I want to talk with him right goddamned now. It’s very important.

Staff Member: Are you the lady who called two days ago claiming to be the High Priestess of the Planet Xanthia?

Nancy: Listen, you little prick. This is Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker in the goddamned House and the third in line for the presidency. Tell the President I demand to speak with him immediately.

Staff Member: May I as what this is in reference to?

Nancy: Jesus Christ!

Staff Member: Oh, you want to talk with him about a religious matter?

Nancy: No, goddammit! I want to complain about that fascist bastard piece of shit Vice President of his.

Staff Member: Have you been shot?

Nancy: No, I haven’t been shot. You’ll pay for this, you little smart ass shit.

Staff Member: Well, what did the Vice President do to you? I’m sure the President will ask me that, so I have to ask you.

Nancy: That evil, Nazi piece of shit, war criminal questioned my patriotism!

Staff Member: Oh, …I see. Please hold, and I’ll tell the President that you’re on the phone.

Nancy: Well, it’s about goddamned time!

[Merle Haggard music plays over the phone]

Staff Member: Ma’am, the President is busy at the moment, but he said he would call you back later today.

Nancy: BUSY?? The moron said he’s BUSY? He’s too BUSY to talk with the Speaker in the goddamned House? That bastard! What could possibly be so important that he cannot come to the phone to talk with me, the third in line to the Presidency?

Staff Member: He said something about his sock drawer.

You Are 8% Massachusetts

You Yankees loving homo! You probably think Starbucks coffee tastes better than Dunkin Donuts.

How Massachusetts Are You?

Perhaps this explains why I would sooner get hit in the head with a sack of slimy boogers than vote for Ted Kennedy or John Kerry.

P.S. The only way I ever have been able to spell “Massachusetts” is by mentally singing Freddy Cannon’s song “Boston” as I type.

P.P.S. Swiped from Teresa, who also is not very “Massachusetts” (Damn, I had to mentally sing the song again!)

P.P.P.S. Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon sang songs about other places as well, such as Tallahassee Lassie, Way Down Yonder in New Orleans and the Jersey Fave, Palisades Park, a song about a long-gone amusement park in Jersey.