let's have at that undead horse, then!
I'll bite. Clinton bonked an intern at a point in his career when he had to have taken his enemies' measure. Had he been thinking with the big head instead of the little head he would have known that he was putting all he had hoped to accomplish in pawn to, God save the mark, the discretion of a 22 year-old female who, as we now know, was as silent on this matter as the grave--well, as a mass grave--and who revealed her secret to no one but her twenty-five closest friends, one of whom elected to wear a wire. For the sake of some fairly advanced foreplay--not even real nookie as this is classically defined--he imperilled his entire presidency and handed his enemies a sword with which to smite him. That his enemies wound up tripping (Tripp-ing, heh-heh) on their own schlongs and impaling themselves on said sword you are entitled to regard as another grave sin to be laid at the president's big feet, although many more of us here regard it as a delightful denouement to the finest political theatre we'd seen since #37, his great leathery wings beating the air, flew off into the western sunset.
Clinton was wrong to grope that intern.* And of course, I can say this because, like George Tirebiter, I never lie and I'm always right, and I've never, ever, stepped out on a wife or girlfriend. How 'bout you, box, hmm? Simon-pure like me--or do forgive yourself any lapses by reminding us, indignantly, that you weren't President?
*As to what followed--all that was a series of improvised survival strategies, some adroit, some not, that got him through the next two years. To aver that had he owned up at the outset he could have survived in office...well, a body'd have to be dumber'n catshit to believe that.
cordially,
