A pat on the back for the Kenyan man who offered Hillary Clinton twenty cows and forty goats for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Hilldog thanked him graciously and promised to convey his proposal to Chelsea, but shouldn’t a mother do more than act as a mere go-between? I hope she sits down with Chelsea and reviews her current list of suitors, putting a line through all the fortune-hunters and gigolos without a cow or goat to their name. That’s the kind of hands-on parenting I like to see in my human cousins.
The Clintons are denying that their 29-year-old daughter is planning to marry this year. If I were Chelsea’s godmother, I’d advise her to get hitched while the bloom is still fresh on the rose. The latest pictures of her suggest that her resemblance to pappy is growing stronger by the day. He’s not a bad looking fellow by any means, but his features won’t travel well across the gender divide. Can anyone imagine a less attractive woman than Bill Clinton in drag? I tried to do so and it gave me stomach cramps.
Whenever the wedding occurs, I doubt it will be a highlight of the social calendar. Knowing Bill, he’ll want to hold in it Arkansas so that every Cletus and Thetus who knew him when he was governor can pay his respects. I pity the guests from out of state who’ll have to spend a couple of days in a place devoid of tourist attractions. The Holidays in Hicksville guide says the state’s main leisure activities are possum-hunting, square-dancing and speculating on which children are the product of an incestuous union.
The Arkansans should learn from their cowboy cousins in Oklahoma, who have put up a bronze statue of Angelina Jolie suckling her twins. The breasts are entirely visible and you couldn’t wish to see rounder pair of milk dumplings. I should imagine it will quickly become a place of pilgrimage for those who venerate the mother in all her boobaceous munificence. The only problem with the sculpture is the presence of the feeding twins, who will prevent visitors from allowing their own infants to suck on Angelina’s bronze nipples. Maybe she should go there in person every month to wet-nurse the lucky winner of a raffle.
Chelsea, of course, is much too sophisticated and intelligent to have people thinking about her breasts. Even the manager of the safari camp, who is a fanatical boob-man, admitted that he hadn’t considered them until I brought up the subject. A lot of credit must go to Chelsea herself, who has never been tempted to take part in a wet t-shirt competition or allowed herself to be photographed in a bikini. This is the behaviour of a young woman who expects to have a career in high politics. You can’t have good working relationships with foreign statesmen if they’re thinking about your tits the whole time.
Yet according to my friend Kola Boof, women won’t truly be liberated until they can walk around topless without caring what men think about it. The goddess, she points out, is traditionally bare-breasted to excite the fervour of her devotees. Thus a woman who exposes her bosom is actually projecting her divine spark. I have my reservations about this argument, but I’m not going to debate titties with Kola. Those who want to cross swords with her may ask me for her email address.
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