From, New World Hors Doeuvres, A Work In Progress

Clearwater, Florida

Back in 1991, in the final thrust of Bush v. Clinton, Bush’s reelection capos chastised Clinton’s fax waffen, calling them Clintonistas, but James Carville’s Little Rockettes were hardly a party to any Rio Grande surfing Sandinistas, that Collie North promoted commie scare from Ronald Reagan’s Mena airport years.

Unlike Clintonistas, a Matalin faxination displaced in the garble, Bush’s campaign shouts, ‘Bozos,’ and, ‘Mr. Ozone,’ were two-syllabic sonics, little big horn cue card jabs, scripted in at the stump speech end for an embattled, pokey Bush; but absent biting visuals, like Monica hugging big boy, the folks at home dinner plate just don’t relate to one-time-only TV clips they slurped up yesterday.

Go back to campaign ‘88. The image of Willie Horton, a rapist, furloughed from jail to knock on your door, was a stop-Dukakis home run, and stuck with Michael Dukakis throughout his campaign. The diff rinse is clear: Mary Matalin’s Clintonistas pitch, undressing her future hubby’s staff instead of their chick casing leader, was far removed from erupting the sticky Public Interest in Billy Clinton’s bimbo trap record.

The sub tile lesson here is that memorable sprechens - lines that reverberate inside our minds - are not often drummed into being by scheming election committees, focus groups, or tinkle tanks, for purposes of sledge hammering an opponent. It’s the human condition : yea oldie word game is a universal we all spontaneously press release by ear. Had we journalists pinned our Billy, "the come-back-on-to-yer-wife-or-daughter-kid," or, "the would-be Oval Office banger," for their lingering clear ring of truth, our quest yins begged would’ve stuck, refocusing all on Gennifer and Paula Corbin, leading up to tabloid folds of every Jane Doe Billy drafted, out before the ‘92 New Hampshire vote.

Member-rabble speech comes natch, a rill mostly to the commonest of folk. The one penny players in the cyberspace pit create great snippets all day long. Our veddy best words, world orders, and word hors doeuvres—that for a couple of squid, troubadour Brits once aspired—get spouted, right off the tops of our heads. Lickedy-split, our most memorable word strings slip from our tongues without forethought.

Ironic, Bush the elder’s never attributed line, "the new world order," was lifted from the very same black-listed poet president Bush himself so spoutfully characterized as, "Jacklegs jumping up demanding e quill time with some screwy scheme," that, on the, "mournful pundits," "egg head academicians," "smart aleck columnists," blase-blazing primary campaign splash, as reported in, The New York Slimes, "Bush Barnstorms New Hampshire," January 16, 1992, by presidentialia voyeur, Maureen Dowd.

Next to a clickedy line like "jacklegs jumping up," that off the top, at the end of a string, Clintonistas, printed as cymbalic donkey’s tale was lacking. So it followed that George Bush, the president of scripted protocols would be toast, a laminated duck. Clinton’s econ pitch, a 101 slick ball, struck take-home pay dirt over the plate and Poppy Bush, the Repo team leader, was slapped out of office by the umpire class, those free agent umpkins whose social contract guarantees them, every 4th year, to be the umpies for a day. A la carte, from the bleachers, the potato lumpies shout, "Yerr Out!" Mr. Bush’s ex prezzo libris surely ought to feature, "cue cards under glass."

Think back dear readers. Ross Perot was trumped into folding his hand by those pro gents from domestic surveillance, the same Bush-like volks who monitor soy-tan poets. They saw Ross on 60 Minutes with loving wife, Margot Perot. Margot said that Ross loved his kids even more than the flag. Ah, those domestic surveillance guys, they could play hard ball, cut bait, and smartly-har-haw, switch hit the focus—throw a foul spit ball and blame it on the Bulgarians—golly, what the heck can you inspect from pinch hitters and daughter smeared digital pitchers, those pics worth a thousand tabloid words?

From the Cash-In-Advancer’s field overview, Perot’s deep affection for his children was his character flaw, an affliction, a chain they could jerk and pass off—a domestic hit card only the spooky federalis could play for a safe walk down the wedding aisle without extreme prejudice, and they played it well. For the boogalee Perot, all his daughters’ weddings were life-time maiden-heaven celebrations—ten gallon galas Perot thought to out class and outlast the House of Windsor.

Such was the spooks’ unwritten pitch: "Get off the campaign perch Parrot, or we garrote your daughter’s wedding. Cut loose your electoral army or we smear your daughter princess." Hollywood for sure: "Das Executive covenant belongs to us, Jones. Drop that bazooka, Indiana or else we kill the girl." Score one at the pass for the fascist politishinz marchin’. Except when Perot’s 1-800 lines were cut, his tents cleared, the stakes uprooted and kliegs unplugged, the millions of his united believers left in the stands had their giddyap reformer hearts broken.

Hoopla Hallelujah! Boom right on cue, those pop kettle Demo-pards convened their ‘92 confection in New Yawk City, La Cook-ha-roach heaven, castigating the Repo-lards who’d vamoosed Houston only the week before, INRI-hearsed, pushing snake-skin cattle prods. Ronald Reagan, the Repub’s best speech-a-fier since Goldwater, the elder mellow-poke turned star warrior, their 80’s Franchise, was saddled for the podium, but the Repubs held old Ron back in the shadows until the Repo hoara-show was on the slither and by then, after three grueling nights of unseemly, us or them venom, a non-stop voodoo convection, even the down home, droned out non-denom anonymous prime time nation was re-pulsified. Chalk one up for tears over jeers - the mascara macarena.

Who remembers? In between the conventions, with Ross-For-Boss in shambles, the two political poddy nominees busily carried on with their own feeding frenzy : who could eat the most pierogies. In unison, syndicated meddle-ya burped from the beltway and labeled Perot’s co-makers perotians, but neither Perot nor his disassembled pierogies were alien moonbeams, or extraterrestrials from Sigourney Weaver land and decidedly, Perot’s united deep six’d 19 million co-makers were not to be digested.

Perotians, the label, was stuck in the individual pierogies’ uncleared throats. So on pick-the-lessor-of-two-evils-day, on the east coast evening news, the projected results were suppressed by the medi-ugh, otherwize this so-mislabeled alien Perot nation would have blown through all their guts, with warp co-maker speed, and next overtaken Utah and California. That fact, too, was sloughed by the Fourth Estate. Such was med-ja’s herding of the post Goebbel’s offspring : stay home why bother yer vote won’t matter.

Ah, dear readers, forgive what appears as digress from Golashes’ treatise, but now, years later, after a panoply of pisher’s gate crimes against the state of our affairs, in the zippidy do-da slide from our constitution’s little biggie, Monica’s gate, those original 19 million United We Stand reformers are strong enough to belt away the holy shebang. They need only beat out a couple dozen squawking incumbents who voted to keep their Monita-Juanica man, instead of our constitution, and Perot’s Ventura legacy will own the House. Bills won’t reach the floor without the reformers’ caucus pre-approval. Mr. Web-soft Money’s two-poddy money regime could be out of the loop hole quick.

There are easily 150 newspapers, out there, to influence electoral outcomes in as many congressional districts. The internet, with sound and full motion video becoming available to all, flattens noose media, besides the beltway’s campaign approach: mud-screen reality. The local presses will grant these candidates a hearing; and, however out-of-style the reform candidates might dress, regardless their not-politishinz careers, all the stronger is the likelihood an internet savy electorate will seek out the reformers’ personal statements, to absorb the contents of their characters, and vote acordingly.

Clinton debased the language of our politics, but words mean something - they relate. At least four years ago, The New York Slimes reported a Bronx born Medicaid clinic was apparently hatched with an express intent to defraud the federal guvvy. The welfare poor were waved in off the street and given cash by the shyster clinicians for lend-lease use of their Medicaid cards. The card swipes generated gravy claims for tests never given, medical non-consultations, and narcotic scriptures, which were then wholesaled and retailed, only yards from their door, by 3rd party drug side supplier specialists.

The Slimes report anonymously quoted folks in the hood aptly describing this cash-in-advance as, "playing the docs." But set aside the anonymous street corner po, though spouting originals like, conversate and positivity, and foisting on all of us, disempowerment. When a moniker sticks to a sitting president as, "the teflon president," stuck to Ronald Reagan, attributed quotes are allowed and the mousy Mr. "on condition of remaining anony-mouse" is out. Everyone gets tipped to the official wit who coined or purloined the day’s catchy phrase. According to C-SPAN, it was on the floor in the House of Representatives where, "the teflon president," was first untethered as a patent leather, one minute belt-a-way, by the Honorable, now retired deer Schroeder.

Recollect that following Billy’s buy-one-get-one election, a ‘label the next administration’ anono-contesta went full blast inside print media with its own just med-ja reward—Honorable Mention over lunch? This crafty naming-of-the-crew contest, calling them buccaneers, after Captain Almighty Buck, was joined by TV pundits, too, who began air-waving, Clintonites, as a trial insight on their poli-sigh talkies; and Clintonites rose to Gospel by The Wall Street Gurgle, but Clintonite, down the years, faster than a speeding subatomic neutrino, goes in one ear and out the other. Clintonite sounds just too archeologic—like bauxite or graphite rocks, or a lost tribe of Israel, fossilized beneath a tarmac. Even the highest of flyers cannot imagine themselves as charters in the tribe of Clintonites. Except for sycophantic members of the Fourth Estate, is there anyone left around on the ground who wants to be one?

Unable to ignite with Clintonite, anony-mass media then locked in, zooming like a pre-ordained cruise missle, on Clintonian, and Clintonian over time, has even appeared in prestigious Gurgle editorials. But Clintonian also fails to click inside the mind, because the mind, that ace place of high occasion, the light shed of rev-o-lay-shin, is that place inside your head where words form; and this word, Clintonian, only reflects the institutionalized beltway pols and TV-only spunditistas-meisters themselves - certainly not us, the voider potatoes getting lumped nightly by these beltway loafers whose supposed polished expertise is in, "how the town works."

Clintonian implies that Bill, Hill, Chelsea, and Socks are already institutionalized—in faux permastone—along with all those suburban rancheros who voted them in. Clintonistas, Clintonites, Clintonians—grant these three anonomisses soundly snap at our memo re banquet. But these punditistacism-arias are failed hack misconceptions instead of reverberatable, ranting rave images of imagined reel people like Pig-slick Horton, Dawn Jogger, Paula Corbin Jones, or Razor-back Willie from McRoostershire.

Which brings us around to more than just one nagging quest yin before their sad liar’s show finally ends, whether with the next shoe dropping, or two Milosevic milleniums hence: who were all those wool dyed F.O.B.’s, anyway, as the netwonked Friends Of Billy were known, at the start, while threading his new administration? Where did all the F.O.B.’s go already besides jail, a talking head spot, some university, or a self inflicted early grave? We know who the FOBICs were: Bill’s clean cut government friends, in FBI / SS caps, clogging the lanes on his sunrise slo-mo dash to a favored McMuffin Mecca.

But what of his lower case fobs, (un-capped), all those exculpatory pro slick followers of bubba Bill, who flocked aboard the S.S. Little Wonk Ark, the election day after, with campaign check stubs, tools, and lob resumes in hand? Who dem? Whose rules? Who deals? Were they all Craig Livingstone clones? Who put that bar room bouncing dude in charge of our FBI files, anyway? Was it HRC, William Safire’s "congenital liar," that Elenore Roosevelt wannabee, Billy’s buy-one-get-one not-to-be indicted co-conspirator free, his stand-by wife whose government dba we pay for every day?

Weren’t we supposed to have been witnessing a genderational change in leadership? Yet reading between the pin stripe’s lines, the only thing spelled out in advance was that all the bit players would be wearing unisex pants. Suppose we had changed from Dan Rather to Connie Chung? Would it have mattered, when the faceless key behind the network clips remains the same, old entrenched Faceless, deciding which of the angles we get to view, however true, and what scoops are scooped for the archivist’s fill?

I was raised before we had hi-fi—after schooled at Hardnox High. I was nineteen or twenty when I met Elvis Presley, at UCLA. Unannounced, at 4:00 p.m., Elvis was going to shoot a scene for Jail House Rock. He popped out of a non-descript, out-of-the-way trailer, parked by a clump of trees, a couple three hundred yards from Sproul Hall, and talked to me and a couple other guys for a good half hour. He was twenty-six years old. In the scene they filmed, the King was getting rehabbed - on parole - going to school.

Notwithstanding homage to Elvis, Mr. Clinton’s Little Rock flock came after the Korean Conflict. They were spocked-up on Bob Dylan, the Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Our Capitol Hill Woolly even admits, whilst on foreign soil, to choking on marijuana. Back then Bill was a post graduated pre-Hillary skud—self propelled, mission poor, white of tooth, long of hair and foist amongst the distinguished scholarly Rhodes stew dense.

Well, how come the working string-pretzels failed to inquire, seven years ago in New Hampshire, did young Bill ever get wired at any psychedelic parties, or experience any contact highs with the windows shuttered. Where was Chris Hitchens with, "Oxford is famous for student parties—debauchery—since the sixteen hundreds. Did you ever get your nose glazed or your eyes cluttered?" Ah, dear reader, imagine the stretch, that loaded follow up, "I was at Oggsford, too. We made signs and marched together. C’mon Stranger, didja ever get venereal, or do a quiet drug deal—cop some easy-to-come-by hashish from Algiers, or connect with some connoisseur’s Thai-stick weed to ply a consenting peacenik, like that lusty bra-less Swede?" Or, "What’s the story on Juanita?"

Tooo late, it’s too late to ask, fellow string-pretzels. He’s long ago inaugged, the end of his term down a short road. Your last chance to ask was ages before the Senators’ pre-paid impeachment votes. Truth is, Billy drank cafe ole. We all did. Some never quit.

The issue, early on, wasn’t Bill’s Oxford friend, that suicide, Frank Allar. Frank Allar’s soul was disconnected, and wanted out. But in light of Monica’s fishy gate aren’t we entitled to everyone’s True Story, something genuinely gained from our collective dope smoking promiscuous LSD past, instead of instant revisionist legacy, that from a spin-liar’s mouth? So of the 60’s millions who self-tested drugs during those heady anti-war days, how many did degenerate from ingestion of pot puff with El Cid?

Originally we voted for WJC, the self-proclaimed Captain Change, the agent for growth, that so-called Southern gent who claimed he was opposed to the Saddam status. But without some radical closure to drug laws from the 1930’s prohibition, which some of us foolishly imagined was in the pipe, recognizing that Mother Nature’s world, the Ten Commandments and Al Gore’s kid all come from the same Creator—Natural Innocence Him, the finger waving uzis incensed from us—unless we are finally certifying both the medical and tax payer’s stamp, we can’t be having any successful North American free trade agreements, unless we also begin to fine tooth comb the cache undertow, that is, every other crate full of cartel-meddle-in lettuce crossing the border from Mexico.

Hark! March 16, 1999. The New York Slimes goes over the fold with, "Top Mexican Off-Limits to U.S. Drug Agents." This could be a Pulitzer for my prize collegue pretzel, Timmy Golden. All the elements are there : genuine cartel leaders, underling lieutenants in charge of laundering the dollars, operatives who make pick-ups for the Mexican bankers, romantic sounding undercover Columbians working with one U.S. swash buckling Val Kilmer look-alike who in the end is forced out by a D.C. bureaucrat who in turn gets a cash reward from Billy for protecting his coffee-mate friend, the Mexican cabinet minister. It’s true to life, stranger than fix shin. It’s well written. What a law suit. It’s my movie script. My own thriller plot with the same great cast made part of the public domain. Life litigates art.

Is it finally time for a change in pallah-sea? A common sense course, facing the wind—would net us at least a billion crates of fresh nickels spat, pittance that, clean green silver cash flow from the underground’s world econ. It’s the annual multi-trillion dollar US underground economy, stupid, from whence our healthy tax cuts just might come, whilst both Capone and Lucianno lobby with the angels and daily complain to God, "We was born into the wrong political slime."

It’s chapter and curse from The Statutes of Goshen Ocean, by Mother Nature, under, Ship-of-State-Operations, Phoenician edition—Her law since the very first Pryor—fire is always fraught with fire: When the wind is on your tail, go with a runnin’ sea. When she starts blowin’ gale, better heave towe, or uzied by waves, you’ll troll in the trough of the sea, fresh escargot for the tentacled squid cartel, those elevator lobsters who hang out by the down-car lobby door to the ocean floor, awaitin’ to dine on your soul.

And so, Sir swoon of the Gurly bra toggle moon, our soon to be, official ex-poli-leader, our gnashional disgrace, though not yet chaste from office—with all do-wop respects to all my well kept cousin colleagues, both overfed leashed and unkempt collies; to all my club-med-yuh TV poodles, whether slicked or slack hippo critters, pomped or pumped, distempered or dour; to my snuffed computer buddy, Danny C.; to you Mr. Billy and Mrs. Hillary, Chelsea and Socks, and all your celeb case-lots of hangers, lock-pickers, followers, and Flower-ears—in good faith, having read the dailies wearing hip boots, your ever black listed journalist, Golashes Journalista, anointest thee: The Clintstones.

Mull it over, yokels, they was barely a month in office and Clintstone, the agent of big democratic bucks—keep the change—was lookin’ maturely bogus, like zippo the same clubby button hole-in-one schmuck and lapper game, with only a gender change of Whitewater name, belly lox for Socks and that rare fish his cat fish book advance. But we endured, until Paula Corbin Jones refused to roll and Monica flashed her underwear.

But for instant justice here, the just result of Monica’s operetta, fully soaped, apparently God’s dramatic intervention was indeed required. God’s personal sheath of lightning bolts unleashed, crashing the desks of every Senator, following their Chaplain’s prayer, might have jerked our Senators into issuing yea olde three day eviction notice. But with God yet unrevealed, our duly elected Clintstone did preveil. So before our electorals cast their next ballots, heralding Clintstone’s departure, from this day onward, let these spin meisterly Clintstones be known, to the end of their spun-filled days, as Clintstonian.

II

Golly, it’s at least a year since Monica disembarking replaced Diana as the paparazzi’s boob tube event. In December of ‘91, I recall standing in line at an AMC movie theater just off Maple Road, in Amherst, New York. As we moved toward the ticket window, I remarked to a loitering group, "Billy could get caught fooling around in the White House. Hillary could find out about it. She could sue for divorce. Hillary’s a sharp lawyer...who gets the House?" Everyone within earshot had a good laugh. Prophetic, but no cigar.

Except 1600 Pennsylvania is really our White House, so when the presidency plays on family TV as triple x Pack-woody, millions of people hold it’s humpt’er and dumpt’er that should be throne off the wall. An equal number of millions, living right next door, let their teeny bopper kids bring home their significant other for an overnight. But what a great fake out play those Clintstones could have run at the bell, after Billy’s pizza mysogenista bimboed to the top of Neilson’s TV ratings.

Scene 1: The Clintstones hold a joint press conference, two days after the Monica story broke. Billy states he is settling with Paula Corbin Jones, and that he and Hillary are separating. "Our marriage is in trouble. Hillary gets the House. (Bite lip). I will be spending my nights at Camp David, (more lip bite), and coming in every day to do the people’s business, but only in the Oval office, not upstairs, except for joint counseling sessions, (bite lip bite), and it’s all KEN STARR’S FAULT!"

On cue, the cams shift to Hillary, dressed in her favorite black, who breaks into tears, on cue, as she heads for the door, the anchorman whispers, to hide her teary distress. Then Hillary reappears, recomposed, eyes swiped and looking at Bill with haughty looks while Billy meanders on about Chelsea’s parenting schedule. With Barbra Streisand directing the sheet, this lost opportunity would’ve won an emmy.

The steamrollered Congress, heeling to the throb, might have voted before the six o’clock news, thump-thump, to cancel Ken Starr. Conservatives privy to Linda Tripp’s tapes would have noisily seethed in outrage and then three or four months later, according to plan—Scene 2: A Chelsea grant-yer-wish interview on the Oprah Show where the Clintstones appear from behind a curtain to publicly reconcile as Chelsea Clintstone cries true tears for joy, Oprah beaming, and Jessie Jackson hugging all.

Well, the founding fathers’ spirits surely ought to hold some sway in the cosmos, though aparently not enough, notwithstanding old Abe Lincoln’s soul complaining for months he couldn’t get a good night’s sleep, so we the people were not to be cheated out of witnessing the sadly waning brilliance of our founding fathers’ lightning flash check for constitutional balance. We are living in the veddy best of political slimes.

Speaking of our founding fathers, now’s as good a time as any to jolt one of old Ben Franklin’s lightning bolts and flash one of their collective innermost, our founders’ true reckoning behind their wide angled phrase, "other high Crimes and Misdemeanors."

Many many years ago, I was an able seaman, in the merchant marine. On my very last trip on a merchant ship, the botswain, Arthur Harrington, of Boston, told me that when he was a young man just starting out, on his very first ship, an old man ship mate told him the following tale: When Ben Franklin was appointed Ambassador to the Court of Louis 14th, King of France, although a famous lithograph showed our envoy, Ben Franklin, in a drawing room setting, entertaining some lady aristocrats, there was more to the story than met that contemporary litho’s eye.

Ben had some beddy-bye scenes with those french lady babes in King Louis’ Court, more than one at a time, according to the bots’un, and in one of their boudoir moments the amourous ladies asked our, "early to bed / early to rise," Ben Franklin, how was it the yankees sailed south out of Boston, instead of east north-east to Europe, yet the yankee clippers always beat the British packets to the English coast by at least a week?

Ben drew his ladies a map of the Atlantic, illustrating that yankee tread ocean current, the Gulf Stream, which back then was like missle tech to the wily Cheyenne-easy! Golly, old Ben Franklin didn’t know those delightfull French ladies were actually British spies in the French Court! And that’s how the British first learned of the Gulf Stream, with spies.

Years later I saw The New York Slimes review of a recently published historical work which revealed this very same tale about our envoy, Ben Franklin, getting charmingly disrobed by aristo-French lady spies. A dry historian, digging around and comparing notes in the crusty old British archives, uncovered the treasonous details: Ben Franklin’s French lady friends were actually a couple of powdered, under-the-covers British spies!

Spies! I’m shocked. I first heard the story on the deck of a ship in 1969, long before it was dusted by the archivists. So to me, the historical fruits of much deep sea did re search passed via word of mouth from ship to ship for nearly 200 years before getting published! Well, by 1787, the founding fathers also heard the British found out about the Gulf Stream and were sailing south-east out of Boston for a tail wind to England; and that it was old Ben Franklin who had given up Mother Nature’s Gulf Stream secret.

Treason us? Ben? Be reasonable. In time, the British would have found Mother Nature’s Gulf Stream currents without Ben Franklin drawing those ladies a map, letting that running sea cat out of the bag, just as it would have been only a matter of time before the Chinese figured out the missing links in their missle aiming and launch technology.

Was Benjamin Franklin’s Gulf stream indiscretion a high crime? Ben got high? Benjamin Franklin’s crime was that corny old mix of Lust and Trust—sounds like a bank, felt like heaven, and always ends in demolition—something the founders clearly understood—so not to mislead, it was exactly Ben Franklin’s sexual indiscretion our founding fathers had in mind when they coined their all encompassing phrase, "other high Crimes and Ms Demeanors," which is why our carefully crafted constitution’s impeachment line runs ‘down derry down,’ from treason and bribery, to a plainly spoken olde English generality.

Our founders did not publicize Ben Franklin’s sexual high jinx in, The Federalist Papers, Farrand’s Records, or anywhere else, as contemporaneous example of, "other high crimes," because it happened during the Articles of Confederation, Ben was only an ambassador, innocently duped by posing naked French lady spies, 1787 wasn’t exactly post puritanical times, and rightly, the founders cared not to sully the name of a fine old guy near death that all the founders respected and loved.

The founding fathers were educated men. They knew that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and fell because Nero was sex addicted. They read the Greek poets and philosophers. Notwithstanding our greatest of ancient poets, old blind Homer, only sniffed on an old wive’s tale, the founders read Homer. They knew that ‘Paris stole Helen naked, coming from the bed of Menalaeus,’ right from under old men a lay use ‘is nose. They read that Helen launched a navy and set off the Trojan war, that fought for a bloody decade!

When we heard the televised litany of Clintstone’s sexual exploitations while in public office, and in the same breath, without analysis, all those official’s med-ja drummings, that his sadly compulsive sexual addictions did not rise to the level of an impeachment, in historical fact, beyond any shadow, the opposite result is what the founders had in mind! Clintstone’s sexual exploits while in office did not merely rise to the level of an impeachment, they called for Writ! Now, besides Monica on the job, there is a recognized pre-presidential pattern of sex-capades, including sexual assault, and rape. What do our Sadammy neighbors really think? Clintstone’s cover-ups of his extra-maritial sex activities while in office also obstructed our constitution - immmpeachy!

Nor can Billy Clintstone’s sadly addictive shtick be chanced in any presidency, though for now we are stuck with one. Our presidency was established in a horse drawn world to function as an elected, albeit democratically controled monarchy. Our president sits in the most pow wow er full office on the good ship mother urf; and it was precisely Billy Clintstone’s behavior, with his aftermath of lies and quick zip cover-ups the founders were thinking of when they coined their wide angled phrase, "other high crimes," missle tech state misdemeaner secrets, and all of that.

Bespectacled Ben aside, the founders realized we could elect a president who might not simply have an eye for every trim ankle passing by, but would in fact be instantly frenched by every imagined unbuttoned blouse, or upraised skirt, which can hardly be tolerated in our micro spy-filled world. In the founder’s world, with Boston to D.C. a five day trip, and the only mass media the tree press, or Paul Revere on horseback, the only citizens privy to any president’s excesses, or truly official unfitness, who could possibly smell some really treasonous stuff, and also be qualified to straighten out the mess and make things right, would be our elected Congress, not the powerless citizenry, out there, beyond the purple mountains, building a country.

So in the event someone truely unfit to be our president did obtain our highest office, our duly elected Congress, after a constitutionally balanced, poli-faction insulated, two tier deliberation, could remove them. The constitution’s final check for democracy’s balance. That was then, our framer’s view. Today is yesterday, news print dust already.

Notwithstanding the pre-determined outcome, our founding fathers would agree to a man, that in today’s event filled forest, those "other high crimes" are those crimes firmly rooted, that once outed, stand out above the rest; obstructions of justice beyond Billy Clintstone’s unbroken compulsions, that cannot be just dissed and spun away; not with their unobstructed rot so quietly clear to the body politic who constitute the Franchise, we of the dawn’s early rising, treading the mill on the ever taxing bread loaf for dollars ground. When drunk as a skunk, Wilber Mills, bottoms up, dunked his car in D.C.’s Tidal Basin, it was a matter of police record, and therefore, of consuming Public Interest.

In the old world, diping a cigar or an egg roll in Monique is an expected, heads-of-state-all-do-it perquisite, but here ye hear ye we spent a whole year talkin’ impeachable nooky cookie because this is our country, not a personal feifdom, and our public sense of family life was Billy debased. How about governing with your pants down in the map room, shining Saddam’s shoezies with cigar juice? Peachy? How many sizzling soups for two did it take with hot and sweet Kim Sue, that Chinese dish who videoed Billy in Charlie’s fast food banquet room? What about her? She got sneaky picture. Were all our future’s molach tarred by that for Chin cookie secretly hired to service woolly Billy?

Tell yourself Kim Sue’s lippo video is just a tripple x, a digital morph, soon-to-be world wide webified as internet spoof. Believe, though down-played as sexual assault, that Jane Doe No. 5, was a rape? And what other sex-tawd legacy, besides lippo Kim Sue and Juanita Broaddrick, did Billy bag unpack, his logistic deposit in our White House?

Congress investigates Cheyenne-easy campaign bucks, and kept the Cox Report under wraps, but mebbe treason’s the reason ten dozen supoened for Senator Thompson’s hearings split that day for another country. Who wants life in jail with that ally spy, Pollard? Gerald Ford will go down in our history for spouting, right off the top of his head, that gem, "An impeachable offence is whatever the Congress says it is."

On words, we reach the bottom line that shouts impeachable offences. In the sea deep forest of our current events, a red light "is" a red light. When you drive through a red light you drove through it. That’s why, years ago, we added yellow - to keep the signals plain, the courts unclogged and people safe, even though the lawyer lackin’ po still get convicted, and languish in jail, whilst all the connected rich guys get to walk.

According to the aforementioned po, it’s the Ruze of Law : In the Halls of Justice the only justice is in the halls. So it followed that in the Senate’s chambers, our founding fathers’ concepts of equality, truth, and justice, that just men gave their lives for on the beaches of Normandy, Iwo Jima, and Guadalcanal, cannot stand. The Senators publicly disgraced our constitutional rights to equal justice, seducing Clintstone’s High Crimes to merely crimes of the high, and heck just impeachably offensive, the Senators’ highball cowardice squat on the collective plates of 90 million parents truly sex offended.

And upon the Senator’s constitutionally required impeachment trial, and the Senators favoring their continuence of Clintstonia, why should you, or any common criminal ever fear a death row shuffle to the electric chair, after fried burgers and pecan pie on hold, when our duly elected guilty-go-free precedent is on the job to protect your rights, read your habeus corpus, and issue you a pardon so your just desert is True Justice? Not a fat Barrabus pecan chance for justice with untrusty Clintstone in our office!

In the TV Village Court of public opinion, our leader lying on the screen to all the people gathered qualifies him, or his wife, or both as public ripoff liars. Clintstone could have returned to his scene of finger pointing crime and then came clean. He might’ve put the flambe liar issue out, though he has not yet, and can’t, or won’t. Clintstone, for at least 365 bizarre media frenzied days, had every chance to make things right, so it is Clintstone, by his own self-serving muck, who deservedly lost this nation’s due respect.

Our duly elected take an oath to defend our Constitution and protect our Bill of Rights, not undermine those rights with proceedural rules, using our public offices for vast self-motivated obstructive orchestrations, to protect and further their own careers. A teenage girl at a supermarket check out counter said it best, "If he lied and cheated on his wife, what’s to say he wouldn’t cheat on our whole country." Nor is Clintstone’s impeachment liable to atrophy in a cloud of constitutional dust, kicked up on the final trial day by our well fed pre-paid Senators, post haste exiting justice for their recess vacations. Not with millions of people quietly sensing treason and with every sun rising, until Serbia’s rape of Kosovo stole the show, another made in China shoe dropping.

But in the buy-one-get-one Clintstone-parsed compartment world, selling Abe Lincoln’s bedroom for ten grand a night wasn’t selling his / our office because the oval office is downstairs, and besides the overnights were all family friends or, "the Riadys sent me," friends of friends who were merely pressing their friendship with soft mattress money.

Esteemed rag doll Dowd scribbled: "Isn’t there something a little creepy about the way the President has turned denial into a psychological ideal . . . separating himself from himself, and defining himself against the image painted by the [House] managers who would oust him. The man is his own hypotenuse." Correct. In a wink, Clintstone sextonista is hyp-noosed astray, toggled on the spot by any trim-ankled fortune cookie, telephonic hot breath or stand up bra-less underling. But above Dowd’s creepy bar, way above that bar, is our serial liar president as predator unmasked, a Ted Bundy Lite.

The February 19, 1999 edition of The Wall Street Gurgle used up half its editorial page, from ceiling to floor, three out of the six columns there, for an article by editorial board member Dorothy Rabinowitz. The editorialist’s focus was making public the story of Jane Doe No. 5, Juanita Broaddrick, the woman Clintstone (allegedly) raped when, as Attorney General, Clintstone was moving up the Arkansas political ladder, running for Governor.

Between The Gurgle and The Slimes, the following, condensed : While campaigning for Governor, Billy stumped at a nursing home Broaddrick owned, met Juanita, and invited her to visit his campaign headquarters, in Little Rock. Coincidently, Broaddrick was going to Little Rock the very next week, to attend a seminar for nursing home adminis traitors. Upon arrival in Little Rock, Juanita phoned Billy’s campaign headquarters. There, a campaign aide directed her to call Clintstone’s apartment, which she did. They agreed to meet that morning in the coffee shop at the Camelot Hotel, where the nursing seminar was being held. But then Attorney General Clintstone called Juanita back, told her that he needed to avoid some print reporters, and suggested that instead they have coffee in her hotel room. The both of them married, he, the state’s Attorney General, campaigning for Governor, golly, Clintstone’s Bundy-like plan never occurred to Juanita.

They weren’t there more than five minutes when Clintstone made his move. He got her down on the bed, forcibly bit her lips, and forcibly entered her. We define this as rape, not rep or reprehensible. Broaddrick remembers, 21 years later, his sexual entry was painful because of her stiffness and resistence. "When it was over, he looked down at me and said not to worry, he was sterile—he had had mumps when he was a child."

"As though that was the thing on my mind—I wasn’t thinking about pregnancy, or about anything," she says, "I felt paralyzed and was starting to cry. At the doorway he turned around. This is the part that always stays in my mind—the way he put on his sunglasses as he was leaving, and he looked at me and said, ‘You better put some ice on that.’ " A few minutes later, Juanita’s friend, a nurse who accompanied her on the trip to Little Rock, found Juanita on the bed. The nurse related in a back ground interview that, "Juanita was in a state of shock—her lips swollen to double their size, mouth discolored from the biting, her pantyhose torn in the crotch."

Skip Juanita, as troubling as her story is. Who advised Bill, while actively seeking our presidency, to create a scene with Paula Corbin, after roping her into his hotel room? Is Son of Sam’s voice the guilty FOB advisor? Or was it Billy’s own compulsive Bundy-like behavioral pattern, flaunting his own twisted sense of pow her? Billy Clintstone could have settled up with Paula Corbin Jones long before he did. Had he nolo contested her in court, Paula Jones would have won a one buck award, but Clintstone is a sore loser besides a parsed born liar, so admitting any truth, absent incontravertable DNA, is beyond the Clintstones’ pail, sink or spermy Senatorial spitoon.

His impeachment trial, in the minds of an informed electorate, should have turned on more than parched, thigh topped nitch definitions. The numeric list of how many friends of Bill and Hill spent a Lincoln over-night before his reelection should have been set against all their friends who spent the night there since, and put to the Senate as public evidence, in their chambers and on broadcast TV, too, along with Juanita Broaddrick, on over-the-air TV, before the Senators waived their constitutional duty, because Clintstone’s selling out of our highest office, whether for treasonous missle tech transfers, quieting the folks who sponsored lippo Kim Sue, or for an unattached raw truckload of campaign bucks speeding through an election loop hole lesion, is what their historic impeachment vote should have been turning on.

The reel record shows, beyond any shadow, that Billy deserves public derision; that he should’ve been put out of office, his pension denied. William Jefferson Clintstone’s cue card library should be a dozen shelves in the Library of Congress, a lesson for the millenium’s coming presidents not to be taking our public oath, swearing on God’s word to defend our constitutional guarantees from the majestic power of our highest public office and then defame our commonest sense of decency, truth and the American way.

O’ Monica chomp chronica oh Monica hair-monica is Clintstone’s chimerica, his purple mountained legacy, but Clintstone’s Swaggerty sins, his philandering hippocritcas have always been forgiven, at least in heaven, and we are all tuned in to cable television.

Therefore, in matters of public office, whether frivolous or grave, by his oath, the Public Interest obligates our duly elected president to treat us equal, which means obey our laws, and tell us the truth, which is also required, according to our heritage and myth, starting with George Washington, our first cherry chomper. Or suffer the consequence.

The 2nd Amendment rattles every day, "dont tread on me!" But beltway blind and money bound, the Senators failed to sense the child and basturds more to come of their complicity, keeping their corrupt Clintstone on as our commander-in-chief. There are at least 90 million people, out there, who hold that Billy Clintstone debased our highest office and that he should’ve been dethroned and disembarked, as required by our law.

Given the odds and odd balls, out there, an economic burp, or full scale foreign war—any event could inspirate a hundred McVeigh wannabees to slip out of the wood work, truly long term ticked, with non-descript tick tock boxes packed with live flare like sticks attached to clocks, and set for the corner bushes at all the government’s offices, to rock the clocks in the grave yard hours of legacist Billy Clintstone’s new dawn.

Hopefully we won’t see any statues shattered to comemorate the slimiest deal of slick pomp in our nation’s whole history, our rule of law a public guffaw, disrobed and rubbed in our collective faces. The Senators irrevocably failed in their requirement, for impeachment is that rarest of lightning bolts that stops the music, and the Senate’s job was to look hard over the total Clintstonian display, well beyond those rank throbing issues that brought them to the constitutional bar, as deciding jury.

During his impeachment, CNBC’s Hardball gang complained, "We have a public liar as our president. How will people raise their kids?" They wined, "What will happen to our courts?" Picture Clintstone taken out, disgraced and yanked by true anti-fascist justice. Had our rule of law intact met them face to face, Justice for lunch that day in every classroom court, their fascist sig heils trenched, might those two uncool Columbine high school kids dropped their ritalin twisted plan to blaze the place and walk the halls, looking for jocks to kill, and anyone else who chanced along, the pulpy wackers blasting away, cackling in their vent? Did their email chatter mock the House vote for impeachment? Did they scorn the Senate’s final coat, there a straw note that bent Kid Camel’s back? Their swastic chatter squelched is Clintstone’s swastic legacy.

Hark! Clintstone’s drug czar interrupts my keyboard clatter, hollering, "fire," but it’s only, "fire," inside a theater of absurdity. The Clintstone czar is on C-SPAN, telling the congressional committee he needs more money to interdict drug traffikers tied in with domestic terrorists. Domestic Terrorists? Call Gore. Domestic terrorists are an endangered species. We don’t have any, unless you include two ritalin druggy high school kids and maybe one pro-life sniper, else he, or she, or they’d been heard from for sure on Senator’s day, falsely claiming to be Bulgarians blasting on behalf of the Albanians, the Serbs, the Kurds or that shakey Muslim renegade, bin Ladin.

A week after the drug czar’s appearance, the Associated Press distributes to Sunday papers everywhere: "States Enlisted to Legalize Hemp Crops" "It’s high time for hemp, say farmers who are enlisting state legislatures all around the country to legalize cultivation of hemp, marijuana’s highly profitable non-halucinogenic canabis cousin." The article mentions the states of Montana, Virginia, Minnesota, Hawaii, New Hampshire, North Dakota, Tennessee, and New Mexico where pro-hemp legislation is already in the works. Add Kentucky since.

Hemp is a farmaceutical weed. One way to cultivate hemp is to throw the seeds on an otherwize useless tract, like a forlorn hillside in Appalachia, and come back four months later. Hemp was America’s first cash crop, farmed for its fiber. The founders grew it. Hemp rope raised the hemp sails of a thousand clipper ships. Canvas comes from the latin word, cannabis, which comes from a Hebrew word in Genesis. Shirts made of hemp outlast cotton; the seed oil is super for sun tans, and hemp’s commercial potential in so many building trade products, besides making hardy paper, will save millions of trees. Currency printed with hemp today would last twice as long as our current bucks, saving more millions. Unbleached hemp fiber is the reason our original dollars were colored green, and nicknamed greenbacks.

The AP reports, "The Drug Enforcement Administration and Justice Department were petitioned a year ago to repeal the DEA’s ban on hemp. But the DEA and the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy have said permitting hemp farming would send the wrong signal to young people. They also worry that marijuana farmers could hide their crops with industrial hemp plants. Police rely on on aerial imagery to detect marijuanna fields." Sooo. Control freak bureaucrats are corrupting our heaven above!

Arial imagery refers to satellite technology, dummies, not camcorders in some helicopter! Aren’t the Chinese, Iraqi and North Korean nuclear installations a higher tech priority for us? Instead millions of dollars are squandered transmitting images from outer space of our own citizens conspiring with Mother nature to create fresh greenbacks.

Shops that feature clothing and accessories woven from hemp fiber are springing up all around the USA. It’s legal here to manufacture clothing. etc., out of hemp, but illegal to grow the stuff, so hemp fiber is imported from Canada. All around the world, hemp is being grown for its fiber. The mind reels back to a whore house ante room in Saigon. We are all rolling spliffs while we wait for an available girl. The house momma-san says, "No can dooo." Why not, we asked, as we fired up our joints, breathing deep. She nods to the row of beds beyond the curtain and says, "Take tooo much time with girl." Oh.

A major complaint by older folks is their inability to get a good night’s sleep. One dried pot bud smoked, or one pot brownie gobbled before bed time would solve that prob limb; and the centuries old mood altering religeous herb, ingested alongside Viagra, makes all that happens to a hard nosed Viagran last an additional twenty-five minutes. Poll that.

Is jury tampering peachable? Clintstone went on a buck rake during his impeachment trial, raising ducats for the democratic party. People forked over $10,000 dollars for a plateful of gravy soaked chicken steaks and Clintstone soaked up two million dollars. Will Clintstone’s oily machine be laundering ducats through state party orgs, who’ll then grease the appropriate committees dishing dough for the senators’ reelections? Was Clintstone’s jury tampered with?

Genetic signal to young people: All politishinz are born hipocrites, with forked tongues, all the better for puckering up to suck up all the gravy thru their own loop holes.

What a chit, voting for Clintstonia instead of impeachment. That vote guaranteed all those Clintstone fellow travelers a Clintstone fund-raising event for the next campaign, with giant traffic tie ups signaling the 90 million swing voters, out there, to keep a sharp look out for any Ventura face who states an honest case for dumping every incumbant.

When impeachment was afoot in the House, James Carville threatened retribution against republicans come the next election. But his shot was really across the bows of democrats!

Carville was threatening demos that forkfulls of Clintstone controlled ducats would be set aside for poddy approved insurgents to challenge any honorable Member of Congress who dared vote their conscience instead of pro-slick. Privately they were also told the fix was in. But could you have expected any of these pre-bought paid for Members not to have marched in lockstep to the poddy money line when they toe their noses at every opportunity? Billy owes his shoddy office to all these beltway incumbants, demos and repubs alike, not to us, the silent powerless majority, herewith.

Yet a murkier crevice lurked. Larry Flynt’s full page ad offering a million dollars for leads to expose republican Members of Congress who also had a Monica was a fake out! To really understand Clintstone’s legacy—how the Clintstones punked our whole constitutional process—you must revisit Clintstone’s kid brother, Roger, on Larry King. Roger’s weak eyes went cold steel as he threatened a scorched earth for all who dared stand up against his brother. Hark, dear readers, Golashes’ paraphrase: ‘If my brother Billy is brought down, there’s a whole bunch going to go down with him.’ Journalists and pundits included?

A few months after Roger’s threat, commercial cut out, Larry Flynt outed a Henry Hyde lapse that was over three decades ago. Might there be a couple dozen current Members of Congress who, once upon a time, 18 yesteryears ago, had an affair with someone in their office? Yea, but a single lap around the desk their wives have yet to hear about. Whelp! Having sold their souls to the special in trysts, to get where they are, any deep pride in a living constitution these Congress people ruse every day was long ago gone, so it wasn’t a serious moral crisis, casting a prosecutorial blind eye on Monica’s gate, et al.

Is it any wonder poddy leaders sought to run a clock on the House Judiciary Hearings, as Henry Hyde was pressured to do? Then, just on Starr’s Referral, without spending any needed time on a panoply of witnesses, like Juanita Broaddrick, they prematurely impeached the oval office law breaker, sending their unfinished matter over to the Senate, where the see-no-evidence fix was in. So we missed out on Monica’s operetta at the hearing table, hiding behind her fat hair, answering tip toe questions and recounting for us all the Tripp told inside details of her "relationship" with Clintstone.

Think back, dear readers. With both Clint and Flynt about to rock and roll out everyone’s dirt, is there any question as to why so many Senators were all way out front day and night parading their public stance well in advance of any impeachment votes, shedding any pretense at unblinding any facts? How many times every day did all these hall way jurors continuously drum the line, "there is nothing new here," while at the same time publicly refusing to look at any witnesses, or examine any evidence? Generally, before a key vote, they all play coy. But should any Members of Congress, assumedly in their right minds, with an old indiscretion, like Henry Hyde’s, have been expected to gamble on their wives and kids going through a Roger Clint Flynt stone parade? Would you?

We didn’t get to hear Kathleen Wiley’s story under oath, or listen to Juanita Broaddrick recount how and when and where Clintstone’s raped her. We didn’t get to watch Asa Hutchinson expose the main smoking gun, an admission from Monica that her ‘talking points’ were written from live dictation on the phone by her Handsome, Casanova Clintstone. We didn’t get to hear about Kim Sue’s video clips from Charlie Yah lin Trie’s testimony, so we could deduct that Chinese campaign money was only a cover for treasonous missle tech transfers that were in advance guaranteed. Golly, we missed it.

Before the next election, Oliver Stone might give us WJC, replacing JFK as the most believable of movies to see, and then, in light of, A Clear and Present Danger, Enemy of the State, U.S. Marshalls, Absolute Power, Above the Law, Three Days of the Condor, and films going back to, The Manchurian Candidate, the citizenry will see what rings.

Imagine the opening scene, initially appearing to the theater audience as character intro, with Brando, or some other heavy playing domestic intelligence aristocrat, talking to some recruits we gather, are living as moles in regular jobs. This is the USA version of that now defunct, peacefully exposed East German Stassi. Musical strains of "Anything you can do we can do better," plays as background.

A calloused looking youth asks the intell heavy, "So what am I supposed to do besides drive my delivery truck?" Brando disdainfully answers, " Keep your insurance up." As kid-Stassi strolls to the door, a Brando aide slips him a plastic debit card and says, "Here kid. D’reck deposit."

Then, an hour and fifty minutes later on the screen, after at least a couple C-SPAN clips from actual Senate roll calls, "Mr Acaca, Mr. Bazooka," until it’s only a few days before the impeachment vote, and the audience sees a tragic accident, with a truck running down the Senate’s roll caller, and behind the wheel, our domestic delivery boy from the movie’s opening scene. Such is the stuff-it-down-your-throat great flicks are made of.

Word spreads and one lone Senator mutters, "those basturds." In WJC, The Movie, it’s easy to cameo a heavy or two, paying a courtesy call on the Governor from Arkansas. They tell him that if it isn’t him, they will cut their deal with another Governor. The domestic dudes want to use Mena Airport to do drugs for money with the Contras. The Arkansas Governor is told by the domestic intell volks there will be a couple million hanging out for him in an accessable Swiss bank account. Later, the Governor tells his wife, "We are covered. I can run for the presidency and win. Never you mind Gennifer."

Is Golashes’ take off on Mena Airport just part of a movie script? We were all reminded in, The Wall Street Gurgle, that when asked about Mena Airport during a 1994 pretzel conference, Clintstone answered that, "it was primarily a matter of federal jurisdiction," and claimed, "they didn’t tell me anything about it." Do you believe Clintstone?

Relax, tis only Golashes’ movie script, but how delicious the format with sub-plot stories within. Nearly ten years ago, our collegue journalist, free lancer Danny Casalaro, was writing an expose on the Inslaw software case. Inslaw was that multiple data base tracking software Ed Meese’s Justice Department purchased but wilfully never paid for. When it came to extracting data, Inslaw software was art of the state.

Imagine yourself arrested in Texas for jay walking. Inslaw, in use today, walks through data bases everywhere, uncovering your parking tickets in Utah, a misdemeanor in Florida, and a pending felony trial in Kansas. Inslaw software was the key to tracking the Red October subs. The only data required, that via satelite, was the time of day a harbored Red October left the dock. Inslaw could calculate when the sub would emerge from the Atlantic Ocean’s various deep sea canyons.

The scandal was the Justice Department’s refusal to pay the Inslaw developers for their software, bankrupting Inslaw, besides violating their contract by reselling Inslaw to other governments. Elliot Richardson took the Inslaw case, and when Casalaro was discovered dead in a suburban D.C. motel, the Village Voice had an article, "Software To Die For."

Danny Casalaro stumbled into the blacked-out octopus. In WJC, The Movie, Casalaro signs his death warrant—the permit—when he brings his synopsis to the Washington Toast and hands it over to then City Desk Editor, Jo-anne Mayonazi who makes an extra copy which she passes on to her husband, Larry McSleace, who works as a paste up guy in a suburban D.C. print shop. McSleace, in turn, passes the Casalaro expose synopsis over to his handlers, the intelligence volks. Three days later Casalaro is / was murdered. In the movie, as in real life, the government has "cleaners" who drain every drop of Casalaro’s blood, load him up with formaldehyde and then bury the guy before even telling his estranged wife and son about their Danny’s supposed suicide.

At the movies it’s part of the popcorn, crossing the threshold to assume that our collegue, Danny Casalaro was not a suicide, but was in fact a murder victim, his permit for life and liberty lifted by our not-so-gentle domestic intelly-gents. Why did the feds kill Danny Casalaro? Why he uncovered their domestic cash-in-advance fascist bureaucracy ink, our CIA / FBI domestic intelly Octopus!

Study up on 1991, when $12,000 multi-tasking work stations, running at 25 MHz, were the only computers capable of accessing the text only internet. Now those originally pricey machines are selling used for $300, and the graphical world wide web has 100 million people surfing every day. Back then, flat bed scanners cost a thousand dollars, and OCR, the optical character recognition software required to extrapolate a page into text, hundreds of dollars more. Back then, a one gigabyte hard drive cost more than $2000! Today they sell for a $100 bucks, and scanners can be had for $87 with OCR included in the box.

And back then the government was still printing a very thick limited edition book in six point type that had the name and address of every individual person getting a check from the federalis. That book included all recipients, whether Social Security, SSI, SSD, military pensions, etc. Everyone getting a government printed check was included in one thick book. Created especially for Members of Congress and a few libraries, this big thick address book was nevertheless public domain, and available, via special request, from the government’s printing office.

In the late eighties CD roms hit the marketplace with Ma Bell’s telephone listings for the whole country. Step one : scan our government’s out of print name and address book, which lists every individual person getting a government check, onto your hard drive. Then create a postal address list of every bank branch in USA. Next apply cutting edge Inslaw to extract the multiples of names whose check addresses are all the same—Z local bank ranch! Finally, you run that list of names against the CD rom of telephone booked white pages. Do the hoochie coochie! Seventy thousand people who don’t exist!

Seventy thousand people in 1991, and how many more today, on the intelligence dole, with bank accounts under slightly altered last names explains where most of our 30 billion dollar domestic intell budget goes. Thousands upon thousands of assets who do not exist in any telephone book. 100,000 plus Stassi style government moles collecting tax payer’s dollars, on the side, for reporting on and profiling you and me in every conceivable work place. Checks without balance. Every newsroom has a Stassi mole or two in place.

The Justice Department tried to bankrupt Inslaw because Inslaw software was capable of exposing all of the above, and more, with snail speed unix computers. Today, direct check deposits are truely electronic, paperless and instant, but a decade back, direct deposit meant the government mailed your check to a physical address. They murdered Casalaro, a free lance journalist, because he figured out why the government ripped off Inslaw’s software, which almost put Inslaw out of business : Inslaw software applied to public domain materials would have totally exposed the domestic intelligence Octopus—where the blacked out operatives were, and with a letter or two removed from their faked last names, who these thousands of mis-guided Stassi-like patriots are.

Such digress. Dr. Philip Santamaria is Dean of Students at Buffalo State College. As an undergraduate, he studied at the University of Moscow, an exchange stew dent. He befriended one Vladamar Posner. Posner, raised in Brooklyn, became well known as a Russian journalist who spoke fluent English, but during the cold war, before Posner’s Donahue days on TV, whenever Posner was invited to a conference here, Santamaria also was invited. Santamaria was also booked into the same hotel, and always booked into a room close to Posner’s, so the two would surely meet and hang out together.

On the issue of getting a check from the intell bureacracy, as Santamaria was certainly debriefed by intelligence people after these conferences, Phillip Santamaria looked at Golashes Journalista, held out his hand, All State Insurance style, palm up, and said, "Cash." (The BCI connection). "Someone would come up to me at the conference and hand me an envelope stuffed with cash, which more than covered all my expenses that also included wining and dining out on the town with my good friend, Vladimer Posner."

Dr. Santamaria also acknowleged that Golashes’ analysis of Casalaro’s fatal discovery was correct, in so far as someone at the same school who is also intelly connected was informed by their handler that Santamaria was connected and one day, the fellow sidled up to Philip Santamaria and showed him his Treasury check with his name slightly altered! This is the stuff of movie scripts, and all that, except Danny Casalaro and his true story are both dead and buried. Can you discount any citizen conspiracy amateur for suspecting that all those dead people in Arkansas were murdered by the same untouchable, Above The Law, intelligence aristocrats who eliminated Danny Casalaro and the Roll Caller?

Such digress, a movie script within a script on the real life murder of Danny Casalaro.

Why did all the corruptive in trysts of soft money and hard power ignore Clintstone’s public domain scum-baggery, helping instead, behind closed doors, to turn his historic impeachment into a charade? Because Clintstone was / is in their collective pocket, bought and paid for in advance, and these special interests had two years left on their lease. White House eviction? When all their Billy did was muck up a sink? Is it any wonder we were all drummed over and over, that all the gnashional noose med polls showed that we the people wanted it over.

One thing is certain, people don’t want to hear about oral sex with Billy Clintstone over dinner! Or of his rapes, either. In WJC, the movie, the pollsters prepare questions and in the walk down the hall from the script writers to the telemarketer’s boiler room, a slightly altered set of questions ends up getting proffered.

In fact every Congress person owed it to themselves, and to we the people, to have contacted their local Boards of Elections for voter lists in various zip codes who voted in the election last, and then used their own personel to poll with carefully crafted probing questions, also released to their local press. They could have hired computer hackers to trace the true source of all their various emails, so to truly understand the depth of all the out-sourced manipulation in our recent constitutional gong show. But they didn’t.

So when you, a common citizen, inquire on your own—what should’ve been the proper end result of our medja-deadened, though historic impeachment, you find most young folks feel Clintstone should have been put out. The elderly are softly split, husbands or wives shrugging and rolling their eyes while the spouse pronounces, "out!"

Actual support for saving Clintstone was really soft as nine out of ten hold that Clintstone lied, committed purjury, and obstructed justice. Those who wanted Clintstone gone drew their conclusions for the right reasons, whereas most who are glad he survived had a personal interest in the status quo, like a healthy stock market, which all the impeachment meisters shouted early on, was bound to go sour if Billy was impeached.

People of color overwhelmingly supported Clintstone because he is their underdog, the victim of right wing discrim. They felt his pain, and hers, too. They know Clintstone has always been a true friend to black folks, regardless his ending welfare as we know it. So there it is, our highest constitutional jury, pre-bought, failed to hang, and hung itself instead, the crisis of money and power averted in the end by the status quo in trysts of money and power, except that allowing the corrupt Clintstone to complete his charade parade as our president is a matter all our politishinz may soon come to regret.

And what about Billy’s buy-one-get-one co-conspirator, soon-to-be-candidate Hillary Rodham Clintstone? What did the First Lady know and when did she know it? In her TV interview more than a year ago, with Matt Lauer, HRC claimed Billy’s troubles stemmed from a right wing conspiracy. That we should all take a deep breath, and one step backward. We inhaled. But when pushed by Matt Lauer, Hillary agreed that yes, the accusations were serious matters, "but," she said, "that is not going to be proven true."

Izzat so? When something is truely mystickle, you miss a lot but get a tickle. She said, frum her lips to God’s all knowing silly-bull parsed ears, "that is knot / go wing to be prue ven true." As Hillary spoke the words her eye brows raised, wrinkling her forehead. Above your brows is, The Tree of No Ledge, yea olde know-ledge give-away.

Even the seasoned camera player, Ronald Reagan, couldn’t keep his brows down, addressing us live from the Oval Office, after the Iran-Contra scandal broke. Ronnie denied that Iran-Contra was about guns for the Contras and ransom money for hostages, which violated an Act of Congress. But Reagan knew full well, as he was making the speech, that he was not exactly telling us the whole truth, and at a key moment his brows flicked up.

Ah, dear readers, softly put the palm of your hand on your head, toward the back, on the soft spot right before the skull turns down. Now, in front of a mirror, raise yer brows up and down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Feel your whole scalp moving. The Hopi indians say, "God comes to you in the top of your head." God is coming all the time. Your forehead, starting out, is clean and legend free, (no ledge there), but when you raise your brows and furrow in the rocks, creating skids - tell tale lines where nothing grows, you’re also wrinkling your scalp in the back, that is black, where you can’t sea yin, ‘cause it’s all dim. Then when G-d comes to you, e falls this way or that way, and you don’t get it write.
"The own le est tab
Lish ment is G-d
Wen you ar bornd
Yer all plugged in
Stub born kids
Un plug them selves
And get all tang
Eld up in side."

And earlier, in the magnum opus for all man kind, the spoken poem that was written down to perform on world wide television, for all the world’s peoples to sea, listen to and be a part of all at once:
 

Wrongs ov the mouth
Can be rite id
Say iam sar e
Skids on the ledge
Ar lines ov wer e
Wher is e G-d is
Gone I think I’ll
Pull a quick e
Foo ling no wun
Not even your self
You made yer self
Fowld up in side.

I think. I think. I think therefore a frenchman Decarte, discard him. Your eye doesn’t think. It seize. Listen to how people talk. They say, "I think," most often followed with a "that," followed at some point in their line by a pause, in the form of an "uh," (the letter ‘u’ is open, like the soft spot on the top of yer head), and then, after the "uh," they proceed to spout what they heard, felt, smelt, saw, knot what they thinkt. We live in a revelationary world. The truth is whatever you spit out, (after the ‘uh’), right off the top of yer head.
 

You caint win
Own le go on
In G-d’s law ther
Ar no loop holes
Yer bornd you live
In en yer gone
G-d all ways gets His man.

All the forehead give-aways are caught on public domain video tape: When Clintstone was questioned by the Grand Jury prosecutors about his advising Monica she could do a Paula Jones affidavit, as Clintstone tries explaining it away to the Grand jury, his eyes are blinking 90 miles an hour, and his brows shoot skyward. Any courtroom judge could see that our president, Clintstone of Forkskinova, was lying through his teeth.

‘Beware the furrowed brow,’ is from Shakespeare, the bard inspired who paced to and fro and spouted all that dialogue, though Shakespeare was pointing out the lines of scheme and redeem, those tell tale up and downers between the brows when he said, ‘beware,’ not the wavy lines of worry schemers all sew there.

In her Barbara Walters interview, Monica’s brows give her away, too. When asked about the talking points, Monica’s right brow jumps, as does her voice, a couple octaves up. But Monica wasn’t lying. She wrote the talking points for her svengala Linda Tripp, to obstruct justice with, which prompted Tripp to call Ken Starr’s crime stoppers.

Monica’s Handsome, Casanova Clintstone dictated the talking points to 1-900 Monica, late night on on a common telephone. Moneeshka typed his talking points verbatim as he spoke. Perhaps the Israelis, the Ruskies or one of our guys taped the tap, but we don’t need to hear it because in our movie bones it smacks as true grit.

Monica is our generic American daughter, a true self-steamer. Like all The Children of Divorce, she suffers from common low self-esteem probs, and feels that she is the reason for her parent’s divorce. There are a million kids out there just like her—self-steamers—they sell themselves a bill of goods about every guy they meet. Getting the guy is part of their imagined ego building need. So Monica wore her knee pads like a medal of honor, which, for all the moms and dads, is sad.

Billy Clintstone used Monica Lewinsky like he uses all his side women, real and imagined. But Monica Lewinsky appeared to him charming and lovely, quick witted and intelligent, and Clintstone went for her because she was easy and a perfect fit for Clintstone’s own compulsive behavioral pattern.

Hillary knew all about Billy and Monica’s underwear, etc., back in January! January. But she didn’t know how deep his affair had actually gone, because Clintstone had sucessfully used Betty Curie and the secret service to shuffle his chronica har-Monica in and out the door. Hillary knew Bill was counseling this so-called troubled Monica to influence Linda Tripp with the talking points, but Hillary didn’t know about the 50 phone-sex calls, ‘Leaves of Grass," or Clintstone’s and Monica’s other gift exchanges.

Monica was more than just another bimbo to be beaten back, because he went for her in the White House. The "redacted" Grand Jury testimony surely contains conversations Clintsrtone had with Monica where he disses the First Lady, typical cad hubby complaints to the gullable babe on the side about how and where the wife is lacking; but the redacted Grand Jury testimony made public, along with the rest of Starr’s Report, would have almost left our first dissed Lady without any choice but separate and seek divorce. And that would have ended the Clintstones’ saga in our public life, because half the plurality that voted for Billy, both times out, were casting their ballots for Hillary!

This redacted testimony, (to protect the innocent?) is under a heavier, more secure lock and key than our atomic secrets were in the Manhatten Project, or at Los Alamos today! Might any loose lipped lawyers in Starr’s office have any spare unredacted copies on disk? And what about those grand jurors who heard it all first hand? Ahh, dear readers, what stale slime is next to be out, what with the rape on our plate of Juanita Broaddrick?

But absolutely the best part in this Clintstonian saga was during Clintstone’s Grand Jury testimony April 17, after Monica’s DNA shmatah was in the public record, so Billy was caught and he had to appear before the Jury. That was the Grand Jury interview where Clintstone says the most memorable phrase in his whole presidency , "whatever is, is."

At one point Clintstone blurts, ‘It breaks my heart to think about what Monica has gone through over this." Woops. Without a trans crypt, Golashes Journalista parses, "it breaks my heart." Noun : It; verb: breaks; adjective : my; object : heart. Well, First dissed Lady Hillary was right there in the room, on background, seething, "Monica’s distress?! You dirt bag! What about our daughter, Chelsea! What about her broken heart?"

After his testimony, Clintstone was scheduled to speak to the nation. Democratic speech writers delivered super apologetic five minute sprechens to the White House, but Hillary would not have it, and with syrup in her voice, ordered, "It’s your speech, dear. You give your speech."

Apply your Bob Woodwordian imagination to his wife, First dissed Lady Hillary Rodham Clintstone, seething at her lo-cal asper-untamed Daddy Clintstone, her one and only, he, utterly frazzled, worn out from a grueling day under the unblinking Grand Jury lights? Might she have said, "Honey, cancel the speech. Reschedule it. Let’s go upstairs, do a quiet dinner with wine, and write the speech together tomorrow morning. Instead, she sent him out to walk the plank with his own self-written brand of self-serving drivel. A few days later, the speech a bust, Hillary had second thoughts, what with her own 1600 Pennsylvania rein at stake.

Monica doesn’t owe Hillary an apology. Monica should be given Betty Curie’s job. She’d be excellent. Anyone who has to talk to the president would have to talk to Monica first, and she’s great on the phone. The White House might be the only safe place for her.

We live in a sea of information. Let’s go back, string-pretzels, to the day we were the gauntlet at the door to the Grand Jury. Monica disembarked the car in a gray suit, pulled by an aide. As the camera panned us, on Monica’s right, a little past halfway, a man is at the rope with a Lee Harvey Oswald smirk on his face. As Monica goes by him he looks at her bosom. He is her stalker, and his photograph should be blown up and given to Monica, because Monica believes, that like John Lennon, she can just go about the business of living her life in the big city and that idea, simply stated, may not be in the cards, pretzels.

The smirker wasn’t one of us, a member of the pretzels! Monica is liable to recognize him from the shadows when she was somewhere else. Roll the tape and give her a picture because the unknown stalker is capable of getting in her face on a dry day with a pvc cupfull of sulfuric acid. Go take a look. Judge for yourselves the stalker’s weird inward smirk. Is Monica entitled to her own life, liberty and pursuit of a talk show, and us a Starr sequel?

Clintstone’s response to questions about his raping Juanita Broaddrick was a blanket refusal to comment, that through his attorney, David Kendall. His personal attorney’s remark is suspect because he refers to Juanita Broaddrick, who, 21 years ago, did not exist. When Clintstone raped Juanita, she was not a Broaddrick. How super cool, they pre-parse every word, able to leap all the old tell tales with nary a drop of dna. We are all well aware of Clintstone’s word parsing. Every time he speaks it all seems pre-parsed!

George Will, in, "Parsing the Presidential Prose," a recent column, quotes Mark Twain who said, "the difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—‘tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning."

Which brings us back to the full Monica. Clintstone knew there would be a Monica quest yin, from the pretzels, about Monica’s Barbara Walters TV interview, even though Clintstone was bound to claim he was not amongst the 70 milllion who watched Monica educating Barbara about 1-900 phone sex on television. Clintstone had plenty of time to pre-parse his response. The president said, "What I hope . . . "

"What," established a Clintstonian compartment inside the mind. "Hope is for the poor," my mother interrupted me, in November, 1969, in her kitchen. "As soon as you say the words, ‘I hope,’ it means you have inner doubts about what you are hoping for. Instead say hopefully." My mother.

Clintstone stated, "What I hope is that she will be permitted to go on with her life." Permitted? I thought life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are entitlements, granted by God, not a revokable permit, like Casalaro’s. What was our Clintstone talking about? "Go on with her life?" Maybe I didn’t hear Clintstone write. Did he say," get on with her life?" Nope. He said, "go," the opposite of stop. Permitted? And who, Golashes Journalista inquires, is issuing these life permits - intelligence volks? Hope is a nope! Clintstone used the word, ‘hope," three times in one sentence!

Monica told Barbara Walters that she and her family were scared. Whatever Barbara Walters asked Monica about her being scared, Monica’s answers were redacted to the cutting room floor. But Monica could not have been any more frightened into silence, about those talking points, than any cubby-string reporter who thought that Danny Casalaro’s story needed telling and started to ask key questions. Clintstone dictated his talking points (diction, pretzels) to Monica on the telephone. Casalaro hangs with Elvis.

Is it Casalaro’s job to investigate how the Clintstones together put in the fix and punked our whole constitution? Isn’t that expose worthy of a network effort? Was it him or her or both who blew it in the ears of certain rich contributors to contact "poddy" leaders, to call the offices of their Senators to complain to their trusted aids how bad the impeachment was? Ah, dear reader, draw your own just conclusions how a cloaked word spreads. But the ninety million swing voters, out there, cannot investigate these matters. Is that knot the duty of gnashional noose med to unravel, our less than forthright estate, who pretty much knew all along Clintstone was a sexually challenged political salamander?

Where are the networks with 90 minute documentary specials tabulating the total days the last 6 years Clintstone spent on the links or was simply, out there, raking in the bucks? No wonder the audience is going for cable news, and leaving the netwurk’s dust. How many saw that PBS documentary where Clintstone, unbeknownst to himself, is picked up by the microphone telling someone after dinner that when contributors give him money they are entitled to get something for it. Come the next election there are 90 million people, out there, who aren’t going to vote for any candidates from either party!

It doesn’t matter how it shakes down. Quietly, behind closed doors, the Senators know in their bones, along with the vast majority of law abiding citizens from all walks of the political spectrum, that Clintstone’s lawless presidency deserved to bite the dust early; and big boy slung out to dry. Skip the compulsive sex stuff, unsettling as some of it is. Sooner or later, time erodes all loyalties, and Hubbel’s True Story, a mega-buckskin book, would certainly corrode the Clintstones’ carefully structured Clint-stonewalls, showing both Clintstones’ crumbling office as more than merely Agnew tainted before they arrived.

And what’s to do with the next free lance Casalaro? Suppress his story, too, with a fake suicide? Once you start harnessing the truth, that fascist suppression takes on its own life, as unwritten policy. Knot good.

Regardless of Kosovo and whatever follows, millions hold the view that D.C.’s eviction Marshalls should be ordered tomorrow to 1600 Pennsylvania and proceed to pile Clintstone’s personal stuff out on the curb. Clintstone can snatch a couple coffee cups on his way out, pack some White House embroidered towels, and maybe a box full of dainty White House soaps for souveneirs. Poor Socks. So what? Chelsea won’t have to quit school, or waitress part time, waiting for a Pell grant. House broken doggy free to good home. Wife goes on.

There are millions of good God fearing men, world wide, who believe in their mairrage vows, like the Muslim Kosavars; men who hold the view, relative to the female of the species, that variety is the spice of wife. Clintstone isn’t one of them. Network television has archived tape of the Clintstones together on a helicoptor pad, each of them back in town from giving a speech and separately, on their way to sprechen again, somewhere else. Meeting there en route, huggy and wife do not embrace or even hold hands.

Network television caught Clintstone on the tarmac where he first spotted Kathleen Wiley. He is recorded asking the political operator at his side, "Who is she?" The fellow answers, "Kathleen Wiley." Clintstone says, "Get me her number." There are a lot of wives in this country who would turn their husbands out the door, faced with that. The fabric of our nation is made up of folk who never fail to hug their spouse and say, "I love you," every chance they get. Not the Clintstones.

Someone asked Hillary Rodham Clintstone where she stood on premarital sex. First Lady Clintstone said, "Kids should wait until they are 21," and, "I don’t want to know about it." This is a lady wife mommy in a life long state of denial. Were Billy a rapist, (see Jane Doe #5), or child abuser, (see Monica), Hillary would be in a state of denial even after a trial and conviction, which is typical of the spouse in an abuser’s family.

We were recently inundated with a Hillary squawk in much touted Talk ragazine. Hillary states that Billy philandered on all of us because he was emotionally abused by his mommy and grandma when he was four years old. It was that pair of child abusers, mommy and granny! They are the ones to blame for Clintstone’s marital sham. And when the Clintstones continuously harrased their own 6 year old daughter at the dinner table, causing the kid to run away crying, so to harden their offspring for future political campaigns, was that intentional harassment child abuse? The Clintstones ought to get a life.

The impeachment of William Jefferson Clintstone, though swirled away by a mini-war in Kosovo, isn’t going to go away until the Clintstones go away. Together, they trashed our constitution with money and power. His impeachment was far removed from any divide between the Christian coalition and the old counter culture. Clintstone as anti-war, generation gap representative is sham, the stuff of beltway Goebbel’s meistery. Billy Clintstone, like so many back then, was anti-Veitnam war because he is a coward and afraid of war. His Veitnam fears far outweighed any personal sense of duty. He ruled out ground troops in Kosovo because he couldn’t see himself on a march, fighting for liberty there.

As far as the old, "Love the one your with," 60’s generation goes, they grew up years ago. The 60’s generation realized that waking up with a nameless someone whose name was gone upon the rosey petaled fingers of dawn just didn’t make it; that perhaps there was more to life—that love was a form of intelligence; that souls are joined one strand at a time, and that loving / giving, surely the grandest "Iam thad Iamb" blessing from God, who is the Highest of the High, who created Love, also included doing the dishes along with dressing the kids for school.

We are the youngest nation in the world with the oldest standing government, and this sad jerk, let off the hook, has truely jeapardized the whole Franchise, a High Crime. Our Franchise is a trust. Our earthly law is only as good as those amongst us who are chosen to interpret and uphold our laws, and the Franchise is we, the people who agree to agree. Of course our constitution has a giant flaw. Unlike the carefully lettered works The LAN Lord uh pin heaven gave’n to Moses the Teacher, our Constitution was written, not lettered, so it has loop holes.

Our government won’t fall because Billy is stilll in there, as he imagines himself the free world’s leader till the last dog dies, nor, we pray will any buildings get put down, just the Congress’ projected tax wealth will slowly dissappear, into the underground economy. Amongst those parents having such a tough time raising their kids with a liar in the White House are millions of independent business people who concluded on their own, out loud at the dinner table, "If he lies and cheats, why shouldn’t I cheat the government out of a little more. Poll that. So more and more family operations will side pocket an ever larger share of their cash flow, devising external fail safe internet ways to ply the stock market from off shore sites, reel their money and beat the IRS, or simply spend the cream as cash.

Our system of checks and balances has wrought iron curtained free standing agencies that feed on themselves as multiple sucks on our tax wealth. Protected regulators rope our rights with dense alien word structures, disregarding our Federal court’s orders, and all the rest of our constitutional guarantees. But both Clintstone and his D.C. bureaucracy refuse to recognize our Constitution doesn’t contain any, above the law we know better, beltway divide. The plain language of the Constitution and Bill of Rights our founders hammered belongs to us, to we, the people, here ye, here ye, the people "out there," a mouse click away from Monrovia.

The United States of America is the greatest nation the good ship mother earth has ever known. Our presidency isn’t some heavy handed regional feifdom, founded on fear of your throat slit, like that of Saddam. We are respected as the lamp light of liberty by all the world’s peoples, including even the missle-cruised Belgradis. Our president is truely elected by the American people and serves as protector of our unalienable rights.

Clintstone, the former stew dent government hack whose goal in life was networking himself to the top should have been jerked from office, tarred and feathered, and then run out of town, along with the pick ‘er up truck he rode in on, for chomping on the wong Cherie; and when it turns out he was Lippo-Pollard tainted from jump street, then what? Jail house lock or Hollywood, either one or both could be an aspect of his legacy.

So let’s cut to Clintstone’s legacy, fast, which confusedly appeared, months ago in, The Sunday Fish Wrap of Record, as Clintstone clearly out of focus, an uncomfortable blur. Clintstone is our first president to be publicly concerned about his, "legacy," while still in office. Recall that telling scene when Clintstone was choosing his first cabinet, the day Ms Hazel O’Leary was formally nominated as Secretary of Edge-er-Knee? Hazel comes from the audience up to the dias. As she turns to the microphone, her print dress swirls and Clintstone is caught with a giant grin, focusing on her gams. Clintsone’s leg a sea: babes. Use that blurry Slimes for wrapping fish.

Clintstone’s legacy includes a scene Geraldo Rivera played over and over on CNBC: a sea of refugees being herded into rail road cars. Clintstone’s legacy is a war that began, for all we know, as a post Monica pro-Nato wag of the Dog that quickly got out of hand. Set aside a jail legacy over the matter of Chinese campaign bucks, and video clips by lippo Kim Sue, that history will show resulted in unfavorable missle tech transfers with far reaching dangerous potentials nearly threatening our shores. The longest lasting Clintstone legacy will be the end of politishinz as we know them, holding up our public offices, and living off the public trough, for politics in America is the last feather bed.

Clintstone’s histo-legacy will have chapters devoted to Clintstone’s campaign brain, Svengali sucker of toes, Dick Morris, and Morris’ concept of triangulation: adopt-adapting the opposition political party’s ideas as your own, this the ultimate of campaign ploys in the partys’ election confusions, so that whatever "is," wasn’t your idea after all. This Morris-melding of any pre-supposed real diff rinse between these so-called political parties is finally coming clear to the voting body politic, out there. It’s obvious all of these politishinz are all the same, regardless of poddy. And this time around, months before election day, already all these uncandid-dates are glazing eyes, and boring the populace to deaf, each of them with nearly the same play-it-both-ways focus group speech.

Governor George Wallace will be mostly remembered as an independent candidate for president who proclaimed, "There isn’t a dimes bit of difference between either party." But Clintstone of Forkskinova raised the bar on fork-overs, his legacy there a brand new oversized dime. On one side the head is covered by giant elephant ears (I feel your pain) with punk avante garde mini stick-pin dollar signs surounding the lobes, (pay for gain), with a donkey’s tail curled behind into a giant dollar sign. But nay that slender dime for calling heads or tails, because with Clintstone’s fat new dime, both sides flip the same.

The true emptiness of Clintstone’s cad character, his only core belief being that his end, getting himself elected and reelected to public office, is Clintstone’s core legacy. Polling after the Oklahoma City bombing to milk that tragedy for his own electoral purposes will be just another historic example of this public liar’s legacy. Billy’s bureaucratic shuffle, so to transfer our missle technology to China, covering Kim Sue’s sneaky pictures, the reason there, and connecting this treason from fast food Charlie Yah Lin Trie, to John Huang, and from there to Clintstone’s campaign for reelection to our highest office, is just another treasonous legacy.

But Prince Albert Gore as controlling legal authority is more than likely going to be Billy Clintstone’s most short lived legacy, because a vote for Al Gore is a vote for eight more years of Clintstonian policy: more, not less bureaucracy.

When choosing between the totalitarian society, like the old U.S.S.R., and a fascist government, like Adolph Hitler’s Germany, you have to go for the communist form. Even in the Darkness at Noon you knew where you stood. Anyone speaking out against the state was crazy to have done so in the first place, therefore you were guaranteed to be judged insane at the trial, druggd acordingly and shipped off to a Siberian gulag.

But in the heavy handed fascist society you don’t know where you stand: "Wear this gold star Jew / So we can see who you are; / Board this rail road car, / Your campaign is goin’ to Babyar." Fascist is the "F" word, that gnashional noose-med no know, but confusing reality—spinning—is the White House politishinz’ operative technique.

In every step up to impeachment every water hole was muddied, the issues confused. It "is" Clintstone who did slime bag all our core beliefs, a poison on the fabric of our life, so by rights, it "is" the Clintstones who should have been departed from our presidency. When Clintstone took office he proclaimed Al Gore would be in charge of, "reinventing government." Did Gore bore any entrenched top tier heads and sliminate some rules and regs or was it just number crunching spin, a mass removal of lowly secretaries? Yet so much good could emanate from just one carefully crafted presidential order.

By executive order, every employee of the federal government, starting with those in the independant agencies, could be issued a clean sheet of paper with a line for their name and government number above the heading, "What Do I Do,?" In response, some would write lengthy docs, explaining programs they worked on, and how upper level bureaucrats caused them to fail. The stone bureaucrats above would probably generate impenetrable papers in coda that only defines their protected positions.

All of these papers, with names removed, could be passed along to composition classes at universities where the stew dense, (dent is singular), our experts in phony baloney paper writing, would carefully examine every paper, line by line, and by their words, judge who is telling the truth and who should be given a severence package. Such a balanced executive order, showing leadership, would lead to a nonpartisan Downsizing Government Act, a much needed featherbed reform, with constitutional balance.

The body of Clintstone’s Executive Orders that should have been made part of the impeachment should be made public anyway, for his non-impeachment trial will quietly bubble in the Court of Public Opinion until hew dies, and his secretive executive orders are a written record of his presidency—all the shoddy things he did to destroy our civil rights as Salamander-in-Chief—for it is Clintstone’s management of our presidency, not the Greenspan managed economy that should have been nailed to the impeachment stake.

Skip the Senators—they made their play—play Clintstone’s Executive Orders on TV for all to see, with some impeccable spirits, like Walter Cronkite, Milton Freidman, and Bill Safire, to name a few, offering commentary on how Clintstone busily chopped away at our Bill of Rights, because we, the people own these air waves, too, and we are entitled to pass our judgement, inspite of the Senators who failed to judge.

Senator Barbara Boxer dismissed the impeachment. Over and over she posed the question : "Has he turned the government against the people?" Suppose it turns out that indeed, Clintstone used the vast far reaching power of the government to violate the Public Interest. Would that suffice for Ms Boxer?

I recollect that 53 years ago I was four years old and doodling with a pencil on the title page of a book about Abraham Lincoln. This was before ball pens were invented. When my brother came home from school and saw what I was doing he shouted for our mother. When my mother came into the living room to see what I had done I announced that it was ok for me to write in the Abraham Lincoln book because some day I was going to be the president. That was my first press conference, but nobody paid much attention. 35 years later, in 1980, I was a write-in candidate for president, and created a flurry in the FCC. (Michael Stephen Levinson 87 FCC 2d, 433 1980).

Then, in 1988, 1992, and 1996 I showed up in New Hampshire to plunk a thousand dollars down and declare my life long candidacy. Finally, this last time out, your humble Golashes Journalista, the unknown poet candidate, started to make headway. I was honorably mentioned in Time Magazine. They wrote, on page 23, December 18, 1995, in a "Dispatch" by-lined Richard Stengel, under the title, "Look Ma, I’m Running!" "There’s also the poet and former seaman from Buffalo, New York, Michael Levinson who proposes a jobs program to build 10,000 clipper ships," leaving out the rest of the line, "college students would pay a lessor tuition to ‘co-ed-man’ the ships, getting their undergraduate edu via workstations connected to the internet with 101 lectures on video tape, so the ships won’t cost to operate, and they will pay for their building, within five years, carrying cargo.

This clipper ship program alone will create millions of well paying semi-skilled and skilled labor jobs—to replace the manufacturing jobs that have gone overseas—wherever there is water and people need work.

Besides being poorly treated by Charles Osgood’s Sunday Morning, there was also an independently produced PBS documentary, "Why Can’t I be President," which featured yea unknown candidate at the beginning, the middle, and the end, but the documentary only aired in a half dozen TV markets.