A must read. This says it all...
Last dog shows gall in final lap around track
by Howie Carr
Friday, January 12, 2001
Hey, Bill Clinton, the last dog has died.
These next eight days can't be over soon enough. This draft dodger, this perjurious sodomite, this bum - last night he breezed into the city for one final round of bum-kissing and rampant rumpswabbery from the adoring local media.
Earlier in the day he parachuted into Dover, N.H., where he allegedly reinvigorated his 1992 primary campaign at the Elks Hall.
If it's true, and Dover did keep his '92 campaign alive, Dover has a lot to answer for. So do the Dover Elks. I hope he paid you dopes for the use of your hall.
Dover, we were told endlessly yesterday by his breathless courtiers, was where Clinton ``surged back into contention.'' It was ``where it all began'' - our long national nightmare, presumably.
Dover, where he first dubbed himself ``the Comeback Kid.''
Could someone have mentioned, just once, that he lost the New Hampshire primary? Anybody remember a guy named Paul Tsongas? Tsongas didn't last long after dispatching the Comeback Kid in New Hampshire, because when the campaign moved to Florida Clinton began sliming him, just as he would later slime Gingrich and Dole, and his lapdog Gore would slime Bill Bradley, accusing an incredulous Tsongas of wanting to do away with Social Security.
Over and over again yesterday the electronic media replayed that lie about how he'd stand by the little people until the last dog died, like it's an immortal phrase.
Please. You want some immortal lines from the War Hero, here they are:
``I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky.''
``It all depends on what the meaning of the word is, is.''
``I feel your pain.''
A few more Clintonisms that we'll all remember a lot longer than the Dover last-dog line. His novel theory that oral sex is not sex. The time Slick Willie visited the museum exhibit of the 15-year-old Andean mummy, after which he said that if he were a single man, he'd date that mummy. When he told Gennifer Flowers that Mario Cuomo sure sounded Mafia. When he compared the Irish to barroom drunks leaning against a lamppost. When he takes credit, as he did again yesterday, for the welfare-reform bill that he vetoed.
When he recalled black churches burning in Arkansas when he was a boy, only there weren't any black churches burning in Arkansas when he was a boy. When he claimed Paula Jones couldn't sue him because he was on ``active duty'' in the military. . .
Last weekend America's Guest was hunting for office space in Manhattan. Price is no object, mainly because he won't be paying for it. For him, it's on the arm. Always has been, always will be. Can you imagine what the monthly phone bills will be, when he's there by himself, lonely, speed-dialing the 1-900 Lust Line hour after hour?
The absolute, unmitigated gall of this pampered pervert, running around the country taking bows like he's actually done something. What exactly did he accomplish? The economy? Take a good long gander at your quarterly 401(k) statement when it arrives in the mail in the next few days.
And this Nightline-PBS thing. They're giving Clinton the JFK treatment, as if bombing an aspirin factory in the Sudan to get his grand-jury perjury off the front page is somehow comparable to the Cuban missile crisis.
Listen, JFK had Marilyn Monroe, Clinton had Monica Lewinsky. JFK cut taxes, Clinton raised them. JFK captained PT 109, Clinton kept Air Force One on the LAX tarmac so he could get a Hollywood haircut. JFK was wounded when the Japanese destroyed his boat, Clinton was wounded when he toppled down the stairs early one morning at Greg Norman's Palm Beach home.
JFK dodged shells, Clinton dodged ashtrays and lamps.
Please, please, Clinton, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. There's only four more words I ever want to hear from you, you bum:
``Not guilty your Honor.''
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