It’s funny how Monica Lewinsky has faded from the limelight. A lot of people didn’t like her, but I always felt a surge of sympathy when I contemplated the misadventures of that sweet-faced young lady. Such is the nature of the simian soul. Were we ever to meet, I dare say that she would be Mary Magdalene to my Jesus Christ. Yes, it would give me great satisfaction to gaze compassionately into her repentant eyes and forgive her sins. I wouldn’t ask her to kneel, of course – that might bring back unfortunate memories.
In this day and age, mind you, her sins were pretty venial. All she really did was fancy the wrong bloke at the wrong time. Those who condemn her for kissing-and-telling forget that she was treacherously exposed by the vile Linda Tripp, a fatter and more obnoxious sneak than Billy Bunter. Haunted by the knowledge of that betrayal, it’s not surprising that Monica confessed all under interrogation. The threats of the Special Persecutor and his federally-sanctioned anal probe were just too much for her. Even Hillary must have known, in her heart of hearts, that Monica was far from being a full-blown sinner – that honour, indeed, belonged entirely to Mr Clinton.
We gorillas nodded sagely when the saga of Bill and Monica broke. This sort of thing happens all the time in the jungle. The dominant silverback, busy with bush politics and day-to-day decision-making, often employs a few young females to bring him snacks and show visitors to the waiting area. These females are naturally in awe of the Big Hairy Chief and normally try to avoid distracting him. But now and again, an audacious young temptress catches the boss’s eye by wiggling her rump suggestively at an opportune moment. If she happens to be in season, one thing rapidly leads to another, and before you know it the cheeky little madam is carrying the alpha’s child.
This brings us to an aspect of the Lewinsky scandal which gorillas find puzzling. It seems that Monica was so eager to offer gratification that she neglected to think of her own strategic interests. Having the baby of the commander-in-chief would have surely been a sound long-term investment, resulting in generous maintenance payments and a continuing media profile. After obliging Mr Clinton a few times, a shrewder girl than Monica would have left the knee pads at home and presented herself passively on the desk in the Oval Office. If Slick Willy had asked for normal service, she might have responded as follows:
“Oh no, Mr President, it’s time for you to perform! I’m through with washing your hickory juice out of my hair! From now on the jam gets squirted inside the doughnut!”
Had Monica been impregnated, I feel she would have behaved with greater composure after the affair had ended. The prospect of motherhood often brings out the practical side of a woman. Taking solace from the generous financial settlement, there would have been no need to confide in the insidious Ms Tripp. I suspect that Monica’s failure to insist on proper consummation stemmed from her lack of self-esteem as much as anything. She really seemed to believe that a semen stain on a dress was all she deserved for the privilege of pouting on the presidential appendage. Sadly, it’s often girls from the best families who fall for rascals of the “treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen” persuasion. I fear for these young ladies – what they really need is an avuncular pastor who might inspire them to loftier ambitions and worthier deeds.
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