Hill Has Another Vision, Bill Dreams The Same Old Dream

Just when Democrats were thinking it was safe to come out of their carbon neutral dens to pander some more to their array of special interest voting blocs, Hillary happens. Again. The junior (how that designation must grate!) Senator from New York, named after Sir Edmund Hillary, life-long Yankee fan, whose jogging daughter barely escaped annihilation on 9/11, and who herself was central to the Irish Peace Process, reminisced on St. Patrick's Day about her brush with death in war-torn Bosnia.

It is 1996. HRC has been Co-President four years. The Bosnian civil war is winding down. A White House presence is deemed appropriate. The situation however is still too dodgy to send in the First Draft Dodger himself. What more seemly compromise than a visit by his wife and daughter to the war zone? Hey, this is an Administration where a good ol' boy from Arkansas can before our eyes morph into the First Black President. Anything goes.

Tuzla - where Hillary and the fruit of her womb land - is a battlefield which would make even grizzled veterans of Omaha Beach blanch. The official reception has of course been canceled. The welcoming party cower in their reinforced concrete bunkers hardly daring to peer out as the plane and its precious cargo weave their way through rocket and anti-aircraft flak before juddering to a halt on the ramshackle runway that is dotted with bomb craters and littered with the body parts of what were just moments ago cheering, expectant crowds.

The growling engines whine to a stop. An eerie silence descends, broken only by crackle of machine guns, the screaming of bullets and the nerve-wracking thud of relentless mortar fire. Nothing moves except Death, his bloody scythe flailing amid the acrid smoke. Suddenly the plane door opens and there stands the First Lady, bareheaded and wearing only a military style gaberdine coat, black trousers and polo neck. An aide appears briefly behind her, holding some body armor. She ignores him. High velocity bullets pepper the fuselage. The aide flings himself on the floor whimpering. Hillary just stands there, obviously enjoying the fresh air after being cooped up so long in the stuffy cabin.

She glances back at her daughter. "C'mon, let's go, Darlin'" she mutters, "can't keep these good Muslim folks waiting." Just as they step onto the ground a mortar explodes so close by they can smell the burnt flesh of a Labrador retriever, the base mascot, renamed Buddy especially for the occasion.

"Gosh, Mom," cries Chelsea, "I'm glad we didn't bring Socks along."

"So am I, Darlin'," replies her mother grimly, "but you know Daddy gets awful lonely when I'm not at home and needs to have a little pussy around to console him."

At that they both stride, heads held high, towards the crowded bunker. The rest of the party deplane and stumble after them, hunkered down, crying imprecations to the Almighty as the deadly fire rains down all round them. One by one shamefaced soldiers emerge from cover, their battle honors glittering sheepishly on their breasts. As they gather round the tall erect figure of Hillary Rodham Clinton, the enemy guns fall sullenly silent.

On the Serb infested hills all about white flags begin to flutter, first one, then ten, twenty, fifty until eventually it seems like winter in Vermont. An awestruck major scratches his head and says in wonder, "My God, this is incredible. Just incredible." The First Lady rounds on him savagely, "Incredible, you say. No, it's completely believable. It's real, totally real, I tell you. I was there for God's sake. I know what happened."

Hillary jerked herself up in her narrow uncomfortable bed and looked into the kindly bearded face of Dr. Guzzuntite. "It happened", she cried piteously, "it really happened". She burst into uncontrollable sobs. The doctor smiled sadly. "There, there," he said soothingly, "you've just had one of those nasty dreams again. Here, take ten of these little yellow pills and three of the lovely blue round ones, your favorites, remember, and everything will be just fine."

After gulping down the tablets between sobs she gazed up at the doctor. "Why are the walls so soft in here, doctor, and why am I kept in this contraption," she asked, nodding at a device which was wrapped around her body and fastened at the back with sturdy buckles. "It's for you own safety, Mrs. Clinton," he replied patiently. "Remember that time in the Day Room when you gave that speech, you injured yourself quite badly ramming your fist through the television screen and frightened all the others."

"But that was my First Inaugural Address, Doctor, don't you see, and they wouldn't listen. They just kept looking at that damn 'American Idol' on Fox, Goddamn it, Fox!" As he wiped some drool from her chin, Hillary, growing drowsy now, murmured, "and how can I answer the red telephone with my hands all tied up like...listen, I can hear it. It's ringing, ringing, ring..."

As he shut and bolted the reinforced steel door behind him, Doctor Guzzuntite turned to a tall, dapper gray-haired man beside him. "Incurable, Mr. President, I'm afraid," he said, sorrowfully shaking his head. "She gone way over the line this time and she's not coming back."

The elegant man flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed dial.

"Calling in another psychiatrist won't help," said the bearded medic, bridling somewhat. "The case is quite hopeless."

"Psychiatrist hell," growled the man, his face growing red with excitement. "Hello," he bellowed hoarsely into the phone. "Yeah, it's me. How're y'all. Been a while, I know. Hey, honey lips, you know that box of cubans you told me way back you were savin' for a special occasion..."