HERMAN CAIN AND BILL CLINTON

 

TABLOID ON THE HOOF: HERMAN CAIN AND BILL CLINTON

 

AND AN IMMODEST PROPOSAL

 

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2011 by Jon Rappoport

 

 

In framing a piece like this, the question is: how utterly, deeply, morbidly, cravenly cynical do you want to be? I scaled up and down that rock, and this is where I finally put my drill in. This morning.

 

Let’s see. On the one hand, we have actual blowjobs in the White House, the giver of the jobs with semen stains on her dress, later presented in evidence; we have testimony from the young intern that the president of the United States inserted a cigar tube in her vagina; we have the president denying any impropriety whatsoever, denying it from January 26, 1998, to August 17, 1998, culminating with an admission of guilt, prior to which the president laid on some prime Arkansas redneck bullshit tempered with Yale/Rhodes Scholar whimsy—“It depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is.” Y’all.

 

(And don’t forget the settlement payout to Paul Jones. $850,000.)

 

On the other hand, we have ten days of denials from Herman Cain concerning sexual harassment of five women. Settlements or severance of $35,000 and $45,000 in two cases. Possible near-genital groping.

 

Bill is defended by Democrats as a majestic president. By some accounts, he was first black president, and he felt people’s pain. He moved to the center, he triangulated, he championed globalism, he played saxophone, he “presided over a robust economy,” and he eventually lost weight.

 

Democrats stick pins in Herman Cain because of what he might have done.

 

Disconnect? Contradiction? Certainly not.

 

I’m sure if Cain had sex with those four women, motel consensual sex, Democrats would come forward and say, “Hey, that’s sort of what Bill did, and we love him. So we love Herman, too.”

 

Right?

 

Carville and Stephanopolous would gladly appear and make the case for Cain.

 

See, Bill didn’t really harass Monica, she was a young willing participant who told her friend, before she went to Washington to work in government, that she was going to take her kneepads with her. So it was cool.

 

But Herman made an unwanted move in a car. It was turned down. It was harassment.

 

Bill didn’t have to badger a 22-year-old kid named Monica.

 

But, oh, wait a minute. The Paula Jones lawsuit was all about sexual harassment. It didn’t happen in a car, it happened in a motel room in Arkansas, May 8, 1991, and according to Paula, Bill dropped his pants, took out his dick, and requested sex.

 

Hmm.

 

Then there was Juanita Broaddrick, who claimed Bill raped her in 1978, in a hotel in Little Rock. She eventually recanted her story, but also claimed that, after making the initial allegation, her house was suddenly under surveillance, people were sitting in cars watching her.

 

Who else? Kathleen Willey, a White House aide. She stated, on 60Minutes, that Bill tried to have sex with her in the Oval Office, in 1993. Subsequently, contradictions were deemed to have popped up in her story.

 

I certainly don’t know the truth about Cain. We all know some things about Clinton. Other things remain a mystery. But maybe what we need, before all presidential campaigns, is a Marathon Confessional. I believe this is an idea whose time has come.

 

All candidates from both parties sit on a stage with any women who want to show up to make accusations. First, each candidate confesses.

 

In 2004, I screwed a waitress in the Beeline Motel on Route 94 while my wife was attending the baby shower of her cousin. I’m deeply sorry. Since that time—although my wife didn’t know about the one-night stand until now (sudden high-pitched screams from the wife, who is sitting in the front row with her lawyer)—I have found light in my personal Savior. And then there was the waitress in Delaware in ’97, but I was merely engaged at the time, and I was frankly having second thoughts about the upcoming wedding (more screams from the wife), so I don’t know if that really counts. The waitress—I forget her name—was so drunk she didn’t have a clue what she was doing, and I was pretty hammered, too. We were drinking rotgut tequila before we went upstairs. Anyway, come to think of it, she might have been a he. I don’t recall breasts. They could have been small. I don’t usually go for small breasts…”

 

After each candidate has cleansed his soul, the women present have their chance to make their statements. At this time, announcements of civil and criminal charges can be previewed.

 

The Marathon goes on as long as it has to. A day, two days, a week, until the air is cleared.

 

You see? Then we can move on.

 

But no pretentious clap-trap about dark thoughts. None of that wimpy jive. I’ve lusted after women in my heart? Forget it. Self-serving whining, immolation, effacement—that’s just a pseudo-religious come-on. We want action!

 

And who cares what the economy is undergoing or what wars are being fought? We’re talking Headline City here.

 

And you see, if a presidential candidate sits up on the stage, in front of all the network cameras, and lies, there are women in the room who will contradict him. Sure, they may be lying, too, but let the global audience decide. Maybe an online vote would help. American Fallen Idol:I Spit on Your Grave.

 

He’s full of it! I was there, in the Holiday Inn, I was on the bed, and he disrobed and pointed to his thing and called it by name! He called in Hassan Astrophysics. Don’t ask me why. The man’s off. Something’s off in his brain.”

 

Brought to you by KY, with Cayenne.

 

Mr. Smarty Pants up there may think he can talk his way out of it, but he was smoking so much weed that night at the dog track, he didn’t notice I had my iPhone with us in the janitor’s closet. Here’s the video! Scott, Brian, Diane—play it!”

 

And of course, they do.

 

Yeah, The Marathon. We’re ready for it. I like the Shrine Auditorium. Joan Rivers on the red carpet.

 

Before we go to a break, ladies and gentlemen, here are The Black Eyed Peas with a song from the musical Camelot—and then a retrospective tribute to Jack Kennedy and the women he loved.”

 

Is IS.

 

As we move forward in the 21st century, pundits will compare former admissions of guilt with present ones: “Well, Frank, this year we had a man who admitted he had an extra-marital affair with his brother’s wife after the funeral of her uncle, who turned out to be a New York mob hit man. That was pretty shocking. But if you recall, eight years ago, a candidate from Florida many thought would have the inside track on his party’s nomination confessed to a string of affairs with hookers. He claimed that, during a six-month stretch, he was suffering from the lingering effects of food poisoning, and it dulled his cognitive processes, and he believed each of the hookers was actually his wife. When asked what ‘his wife’ was doing, on Christmas eve, exposing her breasts on Hollywood Boulvard at two in the morning, as she stood on the sidewalk flagging down motorists while wearing pink hot pants, six-inch heels, and a platinum wig, he said, ‘She spoke with a Russian accent. My wife is Russian. Well, her grandparents were. As I rolled down the car window and leaned over to speak with her, I saw her silently mouth the word KGB. For a moment, I thought she might be a sleeper agent, and so I had her get in. I wanted to find out whether this was a National Security issue…”

 

Eventually, we will elect presidents we know have had multiple affairs with hookers, because, by comparison, we’ve heard worse. Back down the long hall of history, I promise you, Bill Clinton will appear as a saint of restraint. And Herman Cain will be a vague footnote the most meticulous scholars have trouble locating.

 

Relativity works. If the dice don’t roll well in the next few days, Cain may need to resort to it. He can dredge up Clinton. Hell, he can cite the 1805 duel in which the not-yet president, Andrew Jackson, killed Charles Dickinson. Andy made it into the White House with that one hanging from his bio. Just win, baby.

 

 

A former candidate for a Congressional seat in the 29th District (Los Angeles), Jon Rappoport has been working as an investigative reporter for 30 years. He has published articles on politics, medical fraud, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. His website is www.nomorefakenews.com

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