The Centers for Disease Control reported this afternoon that an average of 461 persons per metropolitan area suffered from excessive vomiting after watching the latter-day Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Hefty Hillary Clinton and President Swish Obama, interviewed last night by Steve Kroft on “60 Minutes.”
Giggling like schoolgirls who have OD’d on laughing gas, they kept switching turns, sitting on each other’s knee, and by thunder, they just could not decide whether Hefty likes Swish more than Swish likes her.
Stumped, Mr. Kroft, hopefully on the landing strip of retirement, admitted he could not think up one substantive question to ask the least competent President and the least accomplished Secretary of State of modern times.
“Let’s play,” he said.
What made the Hubris Hour so memorable was that no matter how much they kissed each other, none of the three could think of anything the Chubby Clarabelle has accomplished in the last four years – except skillfully avoiding sleeping with her rapist husband.
(Can three women, who liked Bill, be wrong? The more he rapes, the higher his global popularity soars. As unhappily wed serial liars, they are constantly replenishing the No. 1 family trait. Learning from her husband, the less Hillary does, first as a U.S. senator and then as Secretary of State, the louder she is cheered by the loyal boy and girl chumps in the media – everybody this side of the Wall Street Journal. She has been voted the Most Admired Woman in America 11 consecutive years – for breathing, I presume.)
How Did Media Crowd Take It?
My favorite moments, however, were this morning while perusing my favorite almost-newspaper.
Paulie Richter of the Los Angeles Titanic is one of Chubby Clarabelle’s favorite almost-journalists. “Stoolie,” she calls him for short. In his home, Paulie reportedly has built an altar where he worships her each morning.
Here is the punchline:
Except for lying, even undiscerning Paulie – in this morning’s longest Titanic story, 34 paragraphs – could not think up a single accomplishment.
He created a harmless quote from a “senior State Department official,” branding Chubs “the first secretary who’s also been a global rock star.”
“She’s coming away with a stellar reputation that seems to have put her almost above criticism,” said the sometimes-sensible commentator Aaron David Miller.
Then Mr. Miller regained his footing. He was swatted in the kisser by a visit from the Truth Fairy, who forced him to confess:
“You can’t say that she has really led on any of the big issues for this administration or made a major mark on high strategy.”
Bullseye.
Yes, she was the scoreless Secretary of State.
She suggested ditching the tolerable Hosni Mubarak for Mo Morsi, the moonfaced Muslim Brotherhood terrorist.
Slick move, Chubs.
She also trumpeted very loudly that Assad of Syria – who has slyly bumped off 75,000 of his countrymen in the last 22 months – represented Washington’s concept of a Middle East reformer.
You go, girl.
She may have been the genius who thought up Swish’s ineffable “Leading from Behind” strategy in Libya. The noise is Eisenhower, Patton and General Mills all groaning in their graves.
My Golly, She Is Stout
Reduced to groping (another Clinton family trait) at shopworn imprecisions while daintily ignoring her stultifying ego, Paulie said she was “a hard worker and team player.”
So was my dead dog.
So are the defensive linemen who will play in the Super Bowl on Sunday. But they would be as lousy of a secretary as Chubs.
In closing, Mr. Kroft said he did not want to embarrass her by describing her new poundage.
He didn’t want to embarrass her by inquiring about her lies over Benghazi.
He did not dare ask her to lie about her recent alleged health problems or how, in a recent dream, she fell and injured herself stepping on a cloud.
With that, the three of them traded drool kisses and ambled off the set.
