Tragedy Revealed By Washington Insider
Recently I was cohered by some of my relatives into going on a hunting expedition for wild hogs, deer, and ducks (whichever we stumbled across first) in south Georgia. This group included my cousin, WS – who shall remain nameless for reasons that will soon become obvious. This particular cousin works in the intelligence community for the organization that is known worldwide by a three letter acronym that starts with C and ends with A – but I can say no more about that. Our hosts were our mutual cousins, Otis and his younger brother Earl, from Soperton, Georgia. For the most part, my south Georgia relatives look like cookie-cutter versions of Larry The Cable Guy – though the men don’t fare quite that well. Most of them are only a few DNA loops away from their Neanderthal roots. But Otis and Earl are really good guys, all in all, though given half a chance they will tease a retard damn near to death. So if you’re ever in McRae, or Soperton, Georgia, and need your brakes lined or your groceries expertly bagged, these would be the guys to see.
When WS and I arrived at the edge of the woods in his Jeep, Otis and Earl were waiting by their truck. Otis elected me and WS to man the deer blind — which he explained was a combination of deer stand and duck blind — since we were a mite inexperienced, while they went off to perform the hard part, which is herding deer and wild hogs our way. If not, they assured us, maybe we’d get lucky and some ducks would come to roost in the tree.
I really didn’t mind this, since it would give me and WS a chance to catch up on things. WS shares the family’s general good looks, though he’s much less hirsute than Otis, Earl, or myself – Aunt Jenny told Aunt Lois, who told Mama, who told me, that WS got a depilatory job after college (and Aunt Jenny knows what she’s talking about, ‘cause thanks to a trip to a dermatologist in Atlanta her back is now smooth as wet glass.) In addition to this, WS leaned manners in college and knows how to groom himself well. This had made WS the pride of our family, though I’m not sure the feeling is mutual. (Rumor has it that when WS was asked to list the members of his maternal linage on his job application, which includes Otis, Earl, and myself, he simply wrote ‘deceased’ across the page.)
Anyway, we climbed up into the deer blind and settled in and began waiting for the ducks to come in and roost so we could shoot them – if a deer or giant wild hog didn’t wander underneath us first. But we had damnable luck the first few hours. Eventually, WS and I got to talking about politics and such. I asked him if he was going to vote for Obama. He eyed the direction of my shotgun barrel carefully, then said no. “But I’m going to work for the new boss, whoever it is,” he added. “So it don’t do me no good to be expressing political opinions.”
“Is that right?” I said.
Eventually, our conversation turned to Hillary’’s aborted campaign. “Bill’s fault,” WS said tersely.
“I know he’s been in a public tussle with black people once or twice while Hillary was running for president,” I said.
WS nodded. “Remember the Carolina primary? Bill compared Obama’s landslide victory to Jesse Jackson’s win, inferring it was race related. Then he criticized the press, said they’d put a bizarre spin on the story, made a race issue out of it. He also said that the charge that he unfairly criticized Obama was ‘a total myth and a mugging.’”
“A Clinton criticizing the press? That’s like madness.”
“That’s right,” WS agreed. “In essence, Bill was saying that black folk were voting for Obama just because he was black. And that the press was slanted in favor of Obama. That was like the Pope dissin’ the Madonna.”
“But, that’s the truth,” I blurted out, a bit perplexed. “Practically all the black’s will be voting for Obama, and just because he’s black. And the media are slanted towards the most leftist candidate, which is Obama. In fact, I remember they accused Bill of fanning racial tensions.”
WS arched his eyebrows. “Well, if Bill Clinton told the truth about something, don’t you think that’s pretty strange?”
I had to agree with him there. He was right. The truth was uncharacteristic in a Clinton. What could account for such a drastic personality change. “But why?” I asked.
“Well, think about it,” WS said. “How likely is it that a white Democrat in his right mind will say something negative — publicly, I mean – about their biggest, most solid voting block?”
I shrugged. Something I found myself always doing with WS, who always seemed to be asking hard questions.
“Are you saying Bill sunk Hillary’s chances on purpose?”
“Not on purpose. He couldn’t help it. Let’s just say – hypothetically, mind you – that there are certain agencies within the government that have developed all sorts of concoctions that modify behavior. And that these are used when someone needs to be brought down a notch in the public eye. Name me a public figure who exhibits bizarre behavior and I’ll show you a modification job. Like gay powder put in a young Michael Jackson’s Pepsi or brain tumor powder in a bottle of gin for Teddy Kennedy.”
“Ozzy Ozborne?” I queried, thinking of my favorite song, “Iron Man.”
“Stupid powder on a live chicken neck.”
“And what about Bill Clinton, then. Stupid powder on an intern? A desk clerk? A grieving widow? Is that what you mean?”
“Just never you mind about that.”
“But you do know something about Bill’s weird actions?”
“But you can’t say nothin’?”
“Come on. You can tell me, cuz.”
“Can’t say nothin’.”
I pulled out my flask of Seagram’s Seven, opened the cap and let the aroma drift about the blind.
WS sniffed the air. WS is a good guy, but I knew from an embarrassing incident that happened to him in junior high school that a few shots of Seagram’s would loosen his lips quicker than a gay man in San Fransissy will stuff his business in a glory hole.
“Have a taste,” I offered, taking a sip then offering the flask to him.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
After a few sips, he suddenly blurted out, “Syphilis!”
“Bill Clinton is suffering from syphilitic dementia. But don’t tell nobody. You hear?”
Bill Clinton was well known as a horn dog. As they say down here, he’d fuck a snake if somebody held its head for him. So the idea didn’t seem that far fetched. I was about to answer when we both heard a grunting noise in the bushes below and in front of us. WS and I – both emboldened by the booze – figured from the sound it was a godzilla-sized hog and began blazing away at the bushes. As the noise of our volleys died down, we heard an eerie woman-like shrieking followed by the sound of something heavy scrambling through the undergrowth in a panic.
“Wild hog?” WS asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “So how do you know all this?” I asked.
“A buddy of mine works Bill’s Secret Service detail. Clinton’s irrational anger, irrationality, mood shifts and suddenly blurting out the truth, are classic signs of dementia induced by syphilis.”
“Isn’t syphilis curable these days?”
“Yeap. But Bill’s a repeat offender. Makes it harder to knock it out each time. In fact, there’s a little colored girl named LaMathisha at the CDC in Atlanta whose exclusive job is to sit at her computer terminal and track Clinton everywhere he goes; afterwards, a CDC team discreetly moves in and starts cleaning up behind him.”
Our buzz was wearing off by then, and we figured Otis and Earl weren’t coming back to get us. WS and I descended and headed back to the rendezvous point. We emerged from the woods just in time to see an ambulance shut it’s doors and leave hurriedly.
“What’s going on?” WS asked a dejected looking Earl.
“Uh, Otis had an accident. Said he tripped on his rifle. Damn near blew most of his right buttock off. It was horrible. Say . . . how’d y’all find your way back so easy?” Earl asked. WS smiled and held up a small GPS unit.
As the ambulance pulled away with Otis, I asked WS, “What about Obama? Is there going to be a powder for him?” This question seemed to make WS real uncomfortable. He went quiet, looked around nervously, then shook his head. “Michelle tastes everything for him first.”
“So the country’s just gone go to ruin?” I asked.
As we watched Earl get into his truck and follow the ambulance, WS broke into a bit of a sweat. He nervously played with the bolt action on his rifle until the ambulance and truck where well out of sight. Then he finally broke his silence and asked, “Say, you think when Otis gets out of the hospital he’d help me adjust the scope on this rifle?”