I'm Back for More Cash

by Tony Kornheiser

  After watching Bob Barr, the Stone Age Republican from Georgia, how could it be worse than the horror that preceded it?

  (Seriously, when you see the people we’ve elected to actually represent us, don’t you long for a dictator? A fat guy wearing epaulets and a slew of silly medals on his chest would be so much less embarrassing than, say, Maxine “Muddy” Waters or George “The Geek” Gekas.)

  I want to hear from expert sex witnesses. Let’s bring in Dick Morris and see him grilled about how he talked poll results with the president, and let his “escort” listen in on White House calls. I yearn to hear Senate witnesses described as “forensic hookers.”

  As a nation, we need to process the Clinton “sins” so we can get on with the process of healing. But we shouldn’t do it hastily. Certainly not before a series of televised reenactments.

  The fact is this country needs an impeachment trial. Without it, the cable TV industry as we know it will collapse. Chris Matthews will end up standing at the entrance to the Metro, holding a sign that says: WILL HECTOR ANYONE FOR FOOD.

  Put it on during sweeps week, and it’ll crush. I’m talking better numbers than the Super Bowl: a 30 rating and a 65 share.

  Impeachment could be so big that if the House didn’t vote it, Aaron Spelling would have to invent it.

  Won’t You Come Home, Bill Clinton?

  Perhaps you’ve noticed that President Clinton has gone to Africa for eleven days. He is being accompanied by his first wife, Hillary.

  It is the most extensive visit to Africa by any U.S. president. Apparently, the previous record was two hours, for refueling. President Reagan once thought he was in Africa, but that turned out to be a screening of The Gods Must Be Crazy.

  You may be wondering why the president of the United States would choose to spend eleven days visiting such garden spots as Rwanda and Uganda, when the most beautiful place on Earth right now is here, in Washington, at cherry blossom time.

  Why is he in Africa?

  a. To bag a zebra on safari.

  b. To bag an intern on safari.

  c. To buy a phat dashiki to go with his mad-flava Indonesian batik shirt.

  None of the above. The correct answer is:

  d. Because it’s harder for a process server to deliver a subpoena in Botswana than at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW.

  At this point, Clinton will go anywhere to get out of Washington.

  He would happily climb on the next space shuttle—but John Glenn had dibs.

  While in Africa, Clinton offered what was called “a broad expression of contrition” for America’s shameful role in slavery.

  It was an important, heartfelt moment. But Clinton clearly sees the benefit of staying on the road. And so his next trip will take him to Bolivia, where he plans to spend twenty-one days and apologize for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. After that the president will be traveling to the Yukon Territory to apologize for whale massacres in the late 1880s. Next he’s off to the Marshall Islands to apologize for “all that bird guano.” And there’s talk that he’ll visit the Wal-Mart in Port-of-Spain to apologize that they ran out of the twenty-four-packs of Diet Coke for $4.99.

  I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure President Clinton is ever coming back.

  What’s he got to come back to? He doesn’t own a home. He lives in public housing with a dog and a cat. And the law is after him. You put that profile on anybody else, and the guys down at Max’s 24-Hour Bail Bonds would be getting very nervous.

  From now on, Clinton will try to avoid Washington like Marcia Lewis avoids the grand jury. You know how presidents will fly to flood-ravaged areas and help with the cleanup to show how responsive they are? At this point Clinton will helicopter to your home if you call about the standing water in your basement.

  In his zeal to get out of town, Clinton appears to have embarked on something that looks like a farewell tour. Which is exactly what you do to shore up a sagging career.

  Look at what it did for the Judds.

  I’m anticipating a video and a CD, including tunes like “Help Me, Rwanda,” “Ghana Get You into My Life,” and “Baby, You Can Drive Dakar.” I’ve already seen photos of Clinton dancing, holding babies, and shaking hands. If I didn’t know better, I would assume he was running for president of Senegal—which might not be a bad gig, because that way he could continue to claim executive privilege, and also sport a happenin’ leopard-skin hat.

  (Speaking of the Judds, did you happen to take a gander at Ashley Judd during the Academy Awards? She was wearing a skirt with a belt-high slit, and appeared to have dressed in such a hurry that she plumb forgot her undies. Let me simply suggest it’s no wonder Ms. Judd wasn’t cast in The Real Blonde. Even more shocking was that upon seeing Ashley’s display, Madonna and Drew Barrymore didn’t peel off all their clothing in some sort of ritualistic Slut-Off. The Judds are an accomplished family. Ashley acts. Her mother, Naomi, is a best-selling author. And her sister, Wynonna, hasn’t missed a meal since 1992.)

  It’s no wonder Clinton doesn’t spend any time stateside. I believe we’re now into double figures regarding the number of women who are being sought by Ken Starr to testify whether they’ve had sexual relations with Clinton. (As the boys in the frat house would say: “Double figures. Sweet!”)

  Soon, Starr will have the records of every book these women have ever purchased. What is this cluck thinking? Does he hope that Monica Lewinsky—thank God I finally got her name into this column; I was running out of time—bought Clinton a copy of A Night to Remember? Or Waiting to Exhale?

  Anyway, while Starr continues to chase his own tail, here’s what I predict will happen when Clinton finally returns to Washington. He will be wandering on the South Lawn when a bottle will drop from the sky. It will be one of those new Virgin Cola bottles that the loopy Richard Branson is selling in the surgically augmented shape of Baywatch love goddess Pamela Anderson.

  Drawn inexorably to that bodacious shape, Clinton will pick up the bottle, draw it to his lips, then hold it over his head triumphantly—as crowds of tourists go wild and hail him as a new prophet.

  The gods must be crazy.

  Bill’s Next Gig

  One year from today a tall, tanned, silver-haired man, instantly recognizable, stands at a lectern in the Beverly Hilton, washed in the exhilarating sound of applause.

  He begins to speak.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be with you tonight. Here’s a joke my ex-wife won’t like: Why did Hillary always like to mess around very early in the morning? [Pause.] She wanted to be the first lady.”

  Bada-bing.

  “Hey, how about that Bob Livingston, huh? He gets caught playing Hide-the-Gavel and has the honor and decency to resign. I say, give that man a cigar.”

  Bada-boom.

  “Take my franking privilege. Please.”

  A former president has to make a living, doesn’t he?

  Remember, just last week it was Henry Hyde who suggested: “The president would be welcomed around the country at groups who would love to hear him speak.”

  But who knew it would come so soon?

  It’s time to consider what President Clinton will do when he leaves office—which, judging by my wristwatch, may be as early as Wednesday.

  By bombing Iraq, Clinton was able to DeLay impeachment by a day or two. (DeLay: Get it? And as Dave Barry might say, don’t you think the Dick Armey is a great name for a punk band?)

  In fact, I imagined Clinton sitting in his office last week, writing:

  Dear Diary,

  Holy cow. It worked!

  “… Caught between Iraq and a haaarrrddd place.”

  I’m glued to CNN. But the night-vision gizmo makes it look like I’m staring into a frog pond. And I keep seeing a car driving down a street—it looks like the same car all the time. Maybe it’s like what Keanu Reeves did in Speed, where he ran the same loop to fool Dennis Hopper and get everybody off the bus.…

  Hey, that Christiane Amanp
our’s a babe.

  Hmmm, now what? Can I possibly keep bombing until the new Congress gets in?

  Note: Need Albright to get me a list of countries I can bomb and nobody will make a big stink. Belgium, duck! Hahaha.

  Ah, but victory for our Commander in Briefs was all too brief.

  By Friday, Congress was back deliberating impeachment, and Clinton had to consider what to do next. What best becomes an ex-president?

  Richard Nixon became an author. He wrote grave, numbingly boring books about his life, his presidency, and his foreign policy. The books were outsold 100 to 1 by the Where’s Waldo? series.

  Gerald Ford played golf and tried not to kill anyone by skiing into them. Somewhere, Ford has a presidential library with his important paper. Jimmy Carter became a handyman. You can phone him, and he’ll go to your house and fix your toilet and put your door back on its hinges. The man wears overalls. It’s pathetic. (It’s impossible to believe these men were actually presidents. What happened to us in the ’70s? What were we thinking?)

  Ronald Reagan, of course, became an airport.

  George Bush has gotten much more interesting since leaving office. All of a sudden he has a wild side. He jumps out of planes! (The only thing I can imagine Clinton jumping out of is the second-floor window of some honey’s town house.) I fully expect to see Bush rolling down Wisconsin Avenue on a street luge.

  Bob Dole never was president. But he took a critical first step upon entering the private sector: He got a face-lift. So instead of looking seventy-five, he looks seventy-one. Clinton simply has to get “blephed.” (Blepharoplasty, silly, an eye job to get rid of those horrible bags; he’s carrying enough lower-lid luggage to be a bellboy.) Now Dole’s touting Viagra—he spends half the night keeping Liddy giddy!

  Sex and lying seem to be what Clinton does best. Surely there’s some job he can find that rewards these attributes. Should he open up a public relations agency with Dick Morris? They could do PR for Larry Flynt’s new Smokin’ Hot Congressional Quarterly.

  Funny how Republicans see a Democrat who has admitted, under duress, to having an improper relationship with a woman not his wife, and they want him removed from office. But when these same Republicans see Republicans who have admitted, under duress, the same thing—they praise them like the ’72 Dolphins. What am I missing here? The only reason these people didn’t lie about their affairs under oath is because nobody asked them under oath.

  Okay, what else could Clinton do? He can write his own tell-all book. I can see it now: Inside Monica.

  He could be on the senior golf tour. A McDonald’s manager. Dry cleaner?

  I know. Clinton can construct crossword puzzles. That way he’ll be able to tell us what the definition of “is” is.

  Better yet: He ought to call up his Hollywood pals and start producing movies. I can see him green-lighting his first feature: Saddam, You’ve Got Mail.

  Forgotten But Not Gone

  To: William J. Clinton

  President of the United States

  Washington, D.C.

  Dear Bill,

  Jeez, what the hell has happened to you? You’ve, like, disappeared. You and Chuck Mangione. I keep thinking I’m going to see you on a milk carton. Bada-bing!

  Everywhere I turn I see John McCain, George W. Bush, Al Gore, and Bill Bradley. But not Bill Clinton. I mean, really, what does the president of the United States of America have to do just to get a little publicity these days—marry Darva? (Did you ever hear of such a thing? A TV show where fifty women parade past you in bathing suits, competing to be picked out and whisked off? Hey, will ya listen to me. Hear of it? You probably pitched it.)

  But the point is, even if you did, nobody cares. You are such non-news you may as well be secretary of agriculture. Remember in the good old days when you’d go jogging, and all the TV networks sent camera crews? Now you could streak and you couldn’t even raise a minyan. You’re a stealth president. You could fly right into CNN and nobody would see you.

  I saw where recently you convened a summit of Internet security specialists to talk about how to stop hacking. This is what it’s come to? Bringing a bunch of techno-geeks to the White House to discuss how to erect a computer firewall? What’s next, Bill, a Star Trek convention?

  I feel for you. You’re rattling around in the White House like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your daughter’s back in college. Your wife has gone to New York on, um, business. We both know she’s never coming back.

  She’s calling herself simply “Hillary” now. Not Mrs. Clinton. Not Hillary Rodham Clinton. Just Hillary. Like Wynonna. One day she’ll be campaigning in a small Upstate town, like Binghamton, and she’ll pull out a guitar and start singing C&W. Gaaack.

  It’s just you and that dumb dog now. (The cat’s gone, right? I mean, it’s too pathetic to contemplate—a middle-aged man alone in a big house with a cat.) Face it, it’s over. Al Gore’s got more juice than you. Al Gore! Hey, did you see where Al’s thinking about making “Love Train” by the O’Jays his official campaign song? Remember that? Très lame. “People all over the world, join hands. Start a love train.” Oh, please, Al start this!

  Talk about the end of the ride. Billy, bubbeleh, your name doesn’t even come up! The other day in Albany, Hillary and Al had a joint campaign stop; they hugged and kissed and made slurpy speeches about each other. You they didn’t even mention by name. They referred only to “our president,” like you were stuffed, and in mothballs somewhere, like Trigger. They sure as hell don’t want you to campaign for them. Everybody admires your political skill, but nobody wants you anywhere near them. You’ve become Dick Morris!

  The days of wine and health care are over, Bill. And that cute thing you do when you bite your lip? Forget it. Leonardo DiCaprio did that in Titanic. It belongs to him now.

  Last week I mentioned your name to my pal Frankie, and he said, “Is he still president?”

  Hmmm, what could you do to get some attention?

  Ooops. Sorry I asked.

  Here’s the problem. You’re forgotten, but not gone.

  AND YOU’VE GOT TEN MONTHS TO GO!

  You must have built up sick days, right? Maybe you can take them all at once. You throw in your vacation days and comp time, and you duck out by October. Maybe catch the Series. Or go to Cannes and party with Matt and Ben.

  Look, I understand your situation. You feel useless. You feel like nobody’s listening. You feel you’re the sound of the tree falling in the forest that nobody hears. I know that sound. I make that sound. I prepare my annual State of the Household Address, and before I even clear my throat, my kids ask:

  1. Do we have to listen?

  2. Are you done yet?

  It’s okay. It’s nothing a little Johnnie Walker Blue and some cashews can’t fix.

  I empathize, Bill, so I’m inviting you to hang with me. You can sleep in the attic. (It’s probably nicer than where Hillary made you sleep.) If your wife calls, my seventeen-year-old daughter will take the message.

  She’ll tell you, “Oh, some woman called for you a few days ago. I wrote it down, but I don’t remember where. Can I have some money to go to Montgomery Mall?”

  You’ll ask what the name of the woman was, and she’ll say, “I don’t know. But it was like a weird name.”

  “Was it Hillary?” you’ll ask.

  “Uh, no! Hillary. That’s random.… Gee, you ask a lot of questions.”

  Look, Bill, you love sports. I’m a sportswriter. I’ve got cable. I know all those guys at ESPN. You love good conversation. I’m a radio talk show host. You love to eat. I’ve got the Ronco Rotisserie; we can cook four whole chickens at a time! You love interns. I, um, know a good internist.

  Hey, if we get tired of hanging around the house, watching March Madness and When House Pets Go Mental, we can go check out Saks. When was the last time you went to a high-end department store in the middle of the week? I’m telling you, it’s a total babe-o-rama. It’s like some exotic little game preserv
e. A couple of Big Bwanas like us, who knows what could happen? (Short of actual impeachable offenses, I mean.)

  Then we can go completely nuts at Cinnabon.

  Don’t worry. When we get back to the house, my daughter will have a careful accounting of any important messages.

  Like: “A man called. It was urgent. Something about briefs in a suitcase. Or maybe coats and a briefcase.”

  You mean codes and a briefcase?

  “Yeah, right, whatever.”

  Uh-oh.

  Lay It on Me

  Hiya, hiya, hiya. Is everybody having a good time? Is everybody ready to laugh? Put on your party hats, here comes Mr. Tony.

  Not that I’m bitter. I only mention it because I’ve sacrificed the best years of my life to give you a smile. Even when something catastrophic happens—when a volcano erupts and kills thousands, or, um, my cable goes on the fritz—I’m still thinking about how I can make you laugh. See, it doesn’t matter how much I have to suffer, as long as you’re happy.

  I’m sure after all these years of mirth, you must be wondering how you can say, “Thank you, Tony.”

  Here’s how: Say it with home furnishings.

  I’ve taken the liberty of establishing the Tony Kornheiser Gift Registry. You can access it at my Web site, Thankyoutony.com, where you can show your appreciation for my years of public service by giving me what the pros call “your generous contribution to the White House.”

  I want what Bill and Hillary got.

  Everything.

  The nation was anticipating the Clintons finally leaving the White House. And technically, they did leave the building. They just didn’t leave anything in it.

  I wish I had a picture of Bill and Hillary walking from the White House to the moving van, their clothing bulging with swag. The flatware in their pockets jingled so loudly, people thought they were the Marine Band.

  Check out Bill’s golf haul. He got four drivers—one from Jack Nicholson! (And don’t ask how many mulligans it comes with, because you can’t handle the truth)—four putters, two sets of irons, and a golf bag. That’s enough equipment to open a driving range. Plus, the Clintons got $71,650 worth of artwork, including “two Mongolian landscapes,” which puts them two up on me—and everybody else outside of Ulan Bator—and a $300 “painting of Buddy,” their dog, smoking a cigar and playing poker, I hope.