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Friday 26th October
It takes a real man to boo Senator Hillary Clinton to her face, and when a swarm of hotted
up New York City policemen and firemen catcall her off a public stage at a WTC benefit,
it's time to sit up and take notice. They of all people don't need to kiss a single ass
or tolerate a single phony, but I will be the first to tell them that their high standards
will eventually cost them. Once, at a health care rally in 1994, it was noticed by video
security hired for the event that I was seen to be applauding the then First Lady with something
less than blind devotion, and, next thing I knew, I woke up three days later trussed and gagged
in the trunk of an MGB-GT at a Dulles airport parking lot, naked as a newborn snake. I made sure
never to so much as mutter within a mile of the great lady's hearing after that. I instead took
up ventriloquy, and my enemies suffered hideously at the transplanted Arkansas scobberlotcher's
hands, or rather the hands of her hired goons.
Saturday 27th October
Lately I seem to remember things rather than actually do things, and when it's come to this,
standing in the shower rinsing the Neutrogena T/Gel out of my hair, the scent of solubized coal
tar extract pleasantly calling to mind youthful trysts in the coal scuttle of my grandfather's
baronial pile with a series of comely pantry maids, it only drives home the lack of venereal
activity I've been enjoying in this virus-riddled, hoohoo-piercing, roofy-refusing age. But I am
not as bedsore as all that: this morning Stone Phillips and I sat on Dan Rather's chest while a
CDC physician stuck a drum major sized Q-tip up his nose, drilling for spores. He cried like a baby;
we're all used to it by now. I tried to soothe him by whispering "Kenneth, the frequency is 2000
megahertz" over and over. It helped some, but I'm sorry to note that they're still going to have
to get that carpet cleaned.
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