Warning: This report contains salacious details and appeals to prurient interests. We debated long and hard about the sexual details, but in the interests of national security and pursuit of profits we are forced to digitally manipulate you, dear reader.
This Starr report is a scandal all right, but not because of stories about cigars and oral sex. While President Clinton has shown that his idea of stress reduction is getting a blow job from a bimbo, Kenneth Starr has proven himself something of a Cotton Mather, condemning Slick Willie, the sinner, to a slow death from stones piled on.
Most of us know that $40 million spent to investigate us would shred any political career. Few reporters would want to tell the truth about their sex lives to the world. You wouldn't have to spend $500 to make most cringe. Damn, more people would volunteer to tell about mine than were there in the first place.
It's the end of the presidency as an effective office if any citizen can sue a seated president over a civil matter. The decision to allow Paula Jones to do so over a question of sexual harassment was irrational and indefensible even before the case was thrown out.
Any charges which arose out of that case, which Starr took on after the Whitewater trailer park land deal, the Tyson chicken parts and the failed Arkansas Savings and Loan investigations petered out, is a political assassination of a thousand wounds through leaked salacious details.
Kenneth Starr and the Office of Independent Counsel should be prosecuted for misconduct to make an example of insurance lawyers with leaking blue noses.
No future president will be able to operate without packs of partisan dogs chewing at their balls, even a woman president. How this judicial decision could have been reached by a three judge panel should have been the subject of jokes and editorials, yet the media ignored it because they wanted access to Bill Clinton's sex life for our sake.
And a pitiful sex life it was, if we are to believe Monica, even worse if Bill's version is true. Obviously, it wasn't safe sex. Cigars cause tongue cancer.
There's no perjury because they both admit they didn't have official sex, the penis penetrating vagina, thrusting rapidly 'til ejaculation and exhaustion kind, as defined by Kinsey. If Starr was too prudish to pin the lawyer President down on his definition of sex, then who is lying? If you build a pig pen and don't latch the gate, then who is to blame. Most Americans agree with the president, blow jobs are not real sex. Just keeping Mr. Happy warm and wet.
It's hardly credible, but evidently when you are president, the only foreplay a woman needs to give you a blowjob is a slice of pizza and the sound of your zipper going down. I should have become a politician. You have to lie just as much as most journalists and you get more play.
The last time I got a blowjob it cost me all my cash, and I ended up stranded next to the projects at midnight, not unlike Bill. It should have made him suspicious when she was still giving him head after the first month. Most women rarely go down after the first week. You have to admit Monica Lewinsky seems like the most obvious Trojan Horse from certain enemies of the President. Her friendship with Linda Tripp? The Newsweek connection? Her big hair? The whole thing reeks of conspiracy and treason.
Listen Bill, the only way you're gonna make it through all this is to brazen it out. Screw all this sorry, sorry, hangdog shame and hanging around fallen preachers to learn how to resist temptation. Take it from someone who is used to having people talk about his real or imagined sex life. You gotta say, You know I'm bad, I'm bad to the bone. You wish you could remember all the juicy details, but since I screwed your brains out, you can't recall and that's credible, because you know I'm bad. I'm a bad boy. I practice safe sex by avoiding husbands with guns and exes with axes, hundreds of ho's want to be date raped by me, when my trailer's rocking don't be knocking.
You need to confuse 'em with more tales about huntin' for poontang, spin our sex crazed attention spans into overdrive, and we'll lose interest in the cigar and the big-haired intern. Brag on all your sexual exploits, real or imagined, tell us about your Arkansas razorback days, about doing Sharon Stone and the Queen Mum, and soon we'll forget about the ties and the lies. Let us know you're the bad boy we elected because when you got a hard on the economy be boomin'. You da Man who put the gummint in the black.
Don't wimp out and apologize for acting like a red-blooded male. If men weren't aggressive, no one would ever get laid, but there'd be an awful lot of cuddling. I never got laid by being shy.
Maybe there are some men who aren't horndogs, but they probably ate too many Tyson chickens injected with female hormones. It's a guy thing, why can't we be the dogs we are? Why does sexual morality only reflect what women say they like? And if they really like it, why do all the jerks get laid while the nice guys go home alone and masturbate?
We are dogs and only partially trainable but we have our own morality. Men's morality means backing up your friends when they are attacked, not squeaking about immorality like Barbara Boxer. She forgot how much money he raised for her sorry ass. Women who get upset over men lusting after strange women are like men who complain about women loving to shop.
It's nobody's business who you're doing, but they will still want to know. They'll make something up if they can't find out. So might as well revel in your Arkansas hawg ways. Tell us you have an open door policy, come on in, ugly, fat, old or dumb, just enter the Oval Office on your knees.
And maybe, just maybe, the country will get over this sexual hypocrisy bullshit, which can no longer fly in a land without secrets. Witness the finger pointers like Scumbag Burton hoisted on their own petards.
Use your office as a sex education tool and start by whipping it out for Barbara Boxer. Take a Tantric Sex workshop, go to nude beaches, tell us about your sex life without Viagra, unlike Bob Dole. Remind us of who we could have had. Ralph Nader would not be in your shoes now. We wanted the Bad Dog, and we got him.