The time is sometime in 2009. President Hillary Clinton's new privacy czar is on the job. The scene is morning in the family quarters at the White House. First Man Bill Clinton has just padded into President Clinton's bedroom in his robe and slippers, smoking a cigar. The president speaks:
"Where were you last night, Bubba? And put that damned thing out."
"I don't have to tell, and you can't make me. Yes, dear."
"What do you mean, you don't have to tell? I'm the president of the United States. I'll just ask the Secret Service."
"Nope."
"Why the hell not? They work for me. They'll do whatever I damned well say."
"Because the new PC won't let them."
"What has political correctness got to do with it?"
"Not political correctness, dear, the privacy czar. Your idea, you know."
"That's crazy. I'm the president. Hey, you over there in the black suit with the earphone. Come here. Tell me what Lothario here was up to last night."
"Who?"
"Lothario, you know. That's the new code name for the First Man."
"Oh, yeah. Well, sorry, ma'am, but I can't tell you. Your orders. No spying on citizens. No secret files. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"This is ridiculous. I have a right to know where my … er … husband was last night. Put a tail on him, starting now. Tap his phone."
"Sorry, ma'am, no phone taps."
"Who's in charge of the Secret Service? Who's your boss?"
"Sorry ma'am, can't tell you. It's secret, hence the name Secret Service."
"Hence?"
"Princeton, ma'am."
Later, that same day. The president is having lunch with her political adviser. The subject turns to the 2012 campaign:
"Well, ma'am, it's never too early to start raising money. Looks like the Republicans may finally nominate McCain. He's got a new portable respirator you can hardly even see."
"OK, fine. Let's get out a mailing."
"Great. Just give me the names of your closest 50 or so friends, and I'll get right on it."
"Fifty friends! I don't have 50 friends. Besides, what makes you think they'd give me any money? Get some big lists. The DNC. The Academy Awards invitees. Chicago cemeteries …"
"Sorry, ma'am, no can do."
"What do you mean, 'No can do?'"
"Well, ma'am, the new privacy czar has put a lid on all mass mailings, except for the NRA."
"Why not the NRA?"
"He's afraid of them."
"Oh. Well, let's get the NRA list, then."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I never kid."
Bedtime in the White House. The president pads down the hall to the First Man's bedroom in her robe and slippers, smoking a cigar:
"Hey, Bubba, where are you?"
No answer.
"Bubba?"
A man in a black suit with an earphone appears.
"He's not here."
"I can see that, you twit. Where is he?"
"Sorry ma'am, can't say. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"I wish you guys would stop saying that."
"Yes, ma'am. And put out that cigar. The smoking czar just put out a plethora of new directives."
"Plethora?"
"Yale, ma'am."
Fred Wolferman lives in Southern Pines. Contact him by e-mail at fwolferman@ sbcglobal.net.
