Chelsea's wedding

I overheard the tourists at the safari guesthouse discussing whether the Clintons had snubbed president Obama by not inviting him to Chelsea’s wedding. It was a topic on which I could not hold my peace: 

“Not getting an invitation was the best piece of luck he’s had since the Republican phone sex scandal!” I exclaimed. “If he’d gone to the wedding, protocol would have required him to give a speech praising Chelsea. Flattering a girl he’s never given a second look would have made him look like a chicken-greaser!” 

“I dunno,” said one of the guests. “Lying convincingly shouldn’t be so difficult for a politician.” 

He had a point. I later pondered the words that Barry might have chosen for the occasion. Perhaps he would have said something like this: 

When I saw Chelsea at the Democratic National Convention in 2004, I thought: “Man, that white chick’s got a great ass!” If I hadn’t been married to my lovely wife Michelle, I would have definitely asked Chelsea to be my date at The Detroit Gospel Choir’s Annual Karaoke Dinner. 

A touching tribute like that would have surely transformed Chelsea into the perfect blushing bride. But it might not have impressed the guests all that much. They would have known that a woman always gets compliments on her wedding day, no matter how frumpy or boney-assed she is. Barry is pretty good at sounding sincere, but even his majestic oratory has its limits. 

He could have given another type of speech, of course – one harking back to all the fond memories he had of Chelsea since she was a tiny tot: 

When Bill Clinton was running for governor of Arkansas in 1982, I was privileged to be a junior staffer on his campaign team. One of my most important jobs was baby-sitting little Chelsea when her mom and dad were on the campaign trail. Now people: I can tell you her poop smelt just as bad as the possum shit I accidentally trod on when stuffing “Vote for Bill” flyers into mail boxes. But when she started hollering I said: “You wait ‘til your folks get home, Missy, changing your diapers is a task way above my pay grade!” 

This sort of reminiscence would certainly go down well with wedding guests. The one allegation that humans will always believe is that someone else’s shit smells bad. If I announced that Queen Rania of Jordan produced turds that smelt of buffalo crap, people would assume I’d worked as a lavatory cleaner at the Royal Palace in Amman. 

The downside of delivering such an anecdote is the risk of alienating the president’s core constituencies, who might think that smelling the poop of a white baby had taken him into Uncle Tom territory. Hilldog might then have to reciprocate by saying she’d smelled the poop of the president’s daughters, a confession which would make her surly and irritable. Much muttering and scowling would occur in the corridors of power. 

So all things considered, I think the Clintons did the president a favour by not inviting him to their daughter’s wedding. But they should have invited Monica Lewinsky – leaving her off the guest list was just petty. 

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