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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A generous offer

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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Chelsea flower show

I was reminded of the fable of The Ugly Ducking when I saw footage of Chelsea Clinton the other day. Who would have thought that the geeky teenager who sharpened her pencils on the White House lawn would blossom into such a foxy chick! Well, perhaps more squirrelly than foxy, but you know what I mean. I have Chelsea to thank for an amusing incident that occurred shortly after I returned to the jungle in ’97. I practically chortled my head off when a chimpanzee asked me why the American president had named his daughter after an English football club.

“You ruddy fool!” I guffawed. “She’s not named after a football team, but a trendy London neighbourhood famed for its conceited, nouveau riche residents!”

I later warned the chimpanzee to stay clear of the place, if he ever visited London, to avoid having his picture taken with D-list celebrities. These desperate people will stop at nothing to appear better connected and more intelligent than they actually are.

By all accounts, Miss Clinton is giving bravura performances across the prairies and cornfields of America, in a valiant effort to rescue the faltering presidential bid of her ambitious, steely-eyed mother. I’m sure she’s a natural at the art of working crowds, much as her old pappy used to be. I only hope she isn’t giving the folks too much speechifying at the expense of pressing the flesh. As a girl who started ballet lessons at the age of four, she must be capable of some wonderful stunts in a leotard. Being an intelligent woman doesn’t mean people won't admire your tight little tush. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” as a famous orang-utan once said.

Will Chelsea ever run for office herself? I don’t see why not. She’s clearly a chip off the old block who knows how to pull strings and inspire the voters. A lot of Americans are fearful of political dynasties, but a smart girl like Chelsea won’t repeat the mistakes of her wayward daddy. I very much doubt she’ll be tempted to let some keen young college boy give her oral pleasure in the Oval Office. And even if she did, she’d be smart enough not to get caught.

Picture the scene: President Chelsea is lying on her desk, sighing deeply with legs akimbo, having been slurped to satisfaction by a floppy-haired intern. She slides off the smooth, moist surface and pulls up her knickers, watching the young gallant comb his tousled hair. Her sharp eyes notice a wet patch on the young man’s collar and she instantly recognises the danger – that incriminating discharge would be catnip to the polecats of the political jungle.

“Hey Buster!” she calls out sharply. “Leave your shirt in the bathroom! You’re not leaving this place with my oyster sauce on your collar!”

The shirt is laundered and all traces of presidential DNA are removed.

The one thing Chelsea should do before entering politics is make up with Monica to show the world there’s room in her heart for forgiveness. Some thought Miss Lewinsky was an airhead and a hoochie for doing what she did, but I was never one of them. I’ve seen enough of humans in love to know that their hormones have staged a coup d’etat on their brains. Monica has suffered enough for her sins, and having Chelsea over for a slumber party would mean so much to her. As is written in holy scripture: And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the nymph shall lie down with the billy goat’s kid (Isaiah 11:6).

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