Have a question for Matt Labash? Ask him at [email protected] or click here.
Hello Matt,
I watched all three debates in their entirety, and while both Donald and Hillary provided an equal quantity of mendacity, Hillary’s quality of delivery was far superior. It is analogous to two skaters having equal technical skills, but Hillary taking the gold medal with her artistic presentation scores. She lies with a conviction paralleling Kierkegaardian existentialism, “….the crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me.” But what most differentiates her from Donald is that he speaks with a hyperbolic intensity as if he is trying to obscure his prevarications with vociferousness and repetition. However, Hillary delivers her dishonesty with such mellifluous equanimity, that I’ve concluded that she is probably fantastic in bed! Perhaps Bill’s transgressions should be rightfully blamed on Hillary convincing him, in spite of his perfunctory performances, that he’s a veritable Don Juan. Your thoughts?
David Jones
Texas
I have thought about Hillary Clinton for a quarter of a century. I have thought of her in her many capacities. I have thought of her as a first lady, and a senator, and a secretary of state. I have thought of her as a daughter and a mother, as a feminist and an accused felon. I’ve thought of her as a mean mistreater and a daydream believer. But one thing I have never, ever—and I do mean, never—thought of Hillary as is “probably fantastic in bed.”
Though I wouldn’t know, would I? I’ve never been to bed with Hillary. We’re not that close. And even if she invited me, I’d politely decline. Because I would never want to step in between two kids who really love each other. Who despite all their trials and tribulations, despite all the busted lamps and DNA-splotched Gap dresses, always seem to end up right back in each other’s lovin’ arms. What she and Bill have is special. Or, if you believe the tabloids, what she and Huma Abedin have is special. Either way, I know once-or-maybe-twice-in-a-lifetime special when I see it.
So to answer your question(s), I have no earthly idea if Hillary put the Astroglide in Bill Clinton’s stride. Nor do I know if she’s a rocket-fueled love monkey. But I have my suspicions about the latter. For one thing we do know, courtesy of WikiLeaks, is that Hillary has a tricked-out van with a bed in it. Or as we called them back in the ’70s, a “shaggin’ wagon.”
Actually, though, while an October WikiLeaks dump set conservative journalists’ tongues wagging over the new revelations, the leaked email was merely a forward of an old story, published by my very own former colleague Daniel Halper, author of Clinton, Inc., and now of the New York Post. In 2015, Halper reported for THE WEEKLY STANDARD that Hillary was kicking off her campaign in a limited edition Chevy Express, which the salesman told Halper was “very luxurious….I’d rank it up there with the best.” It had a grey leather interior, heated seats, a Blu-Ray DVD player, a 29-inch Samsung television, and mood lighting. Not to mention, a bed. Halper failed to discover whether it was a waterbed, the apex of ’70s seduction. Nor did he mention whether Hillary planned on installing shag carpeting, or airbrushing her lust wagon with “Frito Vandito” or with a wolf howling at the moon.
But to think a tricked-out van is just a spacious vehicle, instead of a waterbed on wheels, is to ignore history. Over at flashbak.com, shaggin’ wagon scholar Yeoman Lowbrow writes: “I reiterate – this was not your mom’s minivan. This was a place where ‘bad’ things happen, and the designs were warning signs. Get into the back of a van with an airbrushed Grim Reaper in a land of mushrooms and naked fairies, and you should know what you’re getting into.”
Driving the point home, Mr. Lowbrow even mentions Sammy Johns’s 1975 classic, “Chevy Van”, the lyrics of which are a dead giveaway that what Hillary was really after wasn’t reliable transportation, but a sort of mobile Cupid’s gym:
‘Cause like a picture she was layin’ there
Moonlight dancing off her hair
She woke up and took me by the hand
She’s gonna love me in my Chevy van
And that’s all right with me
Her young face was like that of an angel
Her long legs were tanned and brown
Better keep your eyes on the road, son
Better slow this vehicle down
And here, everyone thought Donald Trump was the dirty uncle of the 2016 campaign. Don’t let the prim pantsuits fool you. If you see Hillary’s van rockin’, knock at your own peril. When she has droning power, all bets are off. Just ask Julian Assange.
Dear Matt,
Why shouldn’t Olympic athletes be able to dope all they want? Wouldn’t the spectator be rewarded with even more amazing performances by chemically-enhanced super-humans? Let’s think of the fans.
Yours,
Yuri Burodin
When I was a cub reporter, I once had to cover a protest filled with angry people. I don’t remember which people, or what they were angry about. There’s so many angry people these days, that they all tend to run together. But at the protest, I ran into Jesse Jackson, who told me something I’ll never forget. I don’t think he’d mind me sharing it with you now. He said to me, “Down with dope, up with hope.” These were the years right before he started slurring incoherently, and you could still kind of make out what he was saying. (Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind drug-testing him.)
But I’m generally with Jesse. I’m anti-drug. And not just because drugs get in the way of more important things, like drinking. As the great New York Knick Walt “Clyde” Frazier once said in his seminal 1974 book, Rockin’ Steady: A Guide to Basketball and Cool, a book that I consider to be a close second, importance-wise, to the Bible: “I don’t need grass, because I can sky on myself.” Of course, when we’re talking about doping Olympic athletes, we’re not really talking about pot. Unless they turn binge eating Swedish Fish into an Olympic event.
We’re talking about performance enhancing drugs, things with scary names that sound more like you should be putting them in your car than your body—things like Clenbutorol and Ehtamivan and Furosemide. They can have all kinds of wiggy side effects. Like moodiness, baldness, liver damage, and shrunken testicles.
On second thought, if you’re willing to lose your hair and shrink your clackers in order to gain an extra ten pounds on your deadlift, maybe you deserve to win. That’s commitment. Perhaps we should amend Jesse’s aphorism: “Up with dope, enhance your hope.”
Have a question for Matt Labash? Ask him at [email protected] or click here.
