High life
My bird sings
Taki
have ordered a myna bird from Aus- tralia that happens to be more articulate than most warblers, or so I am assured by my friend Lord Lucan, still living down under after all these years. (Lucky tells me that now that the Aussies will do away with the Queen he might be moving elsewhere.) The bird will be taught two sentences Only. One comes from Arkansas and is as elegant as that state's favourite son: 'Eatin' ain't cheatin'.' The other is almost as bad but is the White House's favourite pre-din- ner parlour game: 'Swallow the leader.' Here is my plan. Once the bird has these tvvu maxims off pat, I will take him to Washington, where a writer friend, whom for obvious reasons I cannot name, will smuggle him into Clinton's next press con- ference.
Just imagine it. As Baron Miinchhausen begins to lie, the bird, hidden in the gallery or perched on a chandelier, will croak, satin' ain't cheatin', eatin' ain't cheatin', eatin' ain't cheatin'. . .' Once the secret ser- vice locates it and arrests it, the bird will squawk, 'Swallow the leader, swallow the leader . . .'
I know it's sophomoric, but it's the only way, believe me. The Draft Dodger can only be laughed out of Washington, no ifs or buts about it Just look at it this way. If the greatest president, say George Wash- ington, had sold a piece of Arlington Cemetery for pieces of silver, he would have been run out of town quicker than one can say Larry Lawrence. But it didn't make a dent in Clinton's popularity. Not only that, the Draft Dodger gave the widow the full monty.
Or look at it another way. Sixty-five of Clinton's money-scamming contributors fled the country or pleaded the Fifth Amendment rather than risk incriminating themselves. Count them again. Sixty-five crooks are on the run and the great Ameri- can public is cheering as never before. Who was the fool who said crime doesn't pay?
Poor Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette lost their heads for feeding cake to the pro- les, whereas the one who feeds his people manure gets the Jewish Ava Gardner.
Poor old Napo was sent to St Helena just because he had a tiny witty but the Draft Dodger has a crooked one . What in heaven's name is going on here?
Paris, the best looking of all Trojans, ran off with our very own Helen, and it took ten years of warfare and the rape of Troy for our honour to be satisfied. This bum gropes Kathleen Willey in the Oral Office ... and on the same day her husband instead of doing a Menelaus — commits suicide. Is this absurd or did Homer get it wrong?
Odysseus slew the suitors for trying to seduce his faithful Penelope. Clinton made Vincent Foster a big shot in the White House for seducing Hillary. (No wonder the poor man committed suicide. Just the thought of it . . ) Who was it who said his- tory repeats itself as farce?
Last week, while playing golf, the Draft Dodger complained that the foursome ahead of him were much too slow. 'Tell them to let us through at once,' ordered the American low-life version of Don Gio- vanni. The caddie, however, was reluctant. `You see, sir, they are blind, that is why they are so slow.' `Why can't they play at night?' countered Clinton.
Just joking. But think of it. 'Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States,' announces a stentorian voice, as the Draft Dodger, waddling with that unathletic duck stride, his fat thighs rub- bing together, his lower lip extended in order to tell the world he's feeling its pain, walks to the podium. Everyone sits and just as Clinton begins to speak, my bird does too. 'Eatin' ain't cheatin', eatin' ain't cheatin' ..' And as the poor thing is being taken away by secret service brutes, 'Swal- low the leader, swallow the leader ..
Three billion people will see this in living colour and will collapse in laughter. Clinton's collapse will soon follow. We will be rid of him at last. Now, if only my buddy can sneak the bird into the White House.
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