Dear Diary,
When I take office, I will be 69. Note to speechwriter: We need more “69” jokes. It’ll go like this: I make the reference, then act like I don’t know what it means. Finally, at the last possible second, I wink. (I want a lot of this. Start a file called “sexy factor.”)
Once Tina Brown gets another job, let’s have her write a piece explaining how Jeb Bush’s name is offensive.
Dinner with Al Gore last night. Nothing notable except that he hit on me like a 17-year old with a belly full of Four Loko and Boone’s Farm. I think he’s lonely. He’s certainly handsy. He also chastised me for ordering the chicken carbonara because it has the word “carbon” in it. I’d like to believe he means well, but when we went in the restaurant he told the chauffer to keep the engine running, and then he giggled. It’s hard to take an environmentalist seriously when it takes ten minutes just to get through his foyer, and that’s at a trot.
I’ve been fooling around with possible inscriptions for my monument, when that day comes. Whatever we choose, I want it to rhyme. I’m thinking a Coldplay vibe, but more like album cuts than singles.
Note to self: Move “boob job” from the “no” column to “maybe.”
What books should we say I’m reading? I’d love to mention that Piketty thing, but I can’t say his name without giggling.
More monument thoughts: Location? Kennedy’s eternal flame has had a nice, long run, but seriously, who knows that guy anymore? Would people complain if we eased it down the hill a couple hundred yards? Certainly not the kids. Their knowledge of history begins in 2001. (Thank goodness.)
Harry Reid–what to do about that grim old coot? He looks like a guy rejected to pose in “American Gothic” for looking too severe. Hey, Harry! George Wallace just called to thank you for making him seem like less of a dick in comparison. He looks like he ought to be playing somebody’s grandpa in “Twilight.”
More on my monument: What if we replaced Pennsylvania Avenue with a green-friendly pedestrian mall built entirely out of recycled soda bottles? We avoid micro-aggression by banning talking inside. Even better: We forbid entry to all but women and members of underserved communities. It’s time we had a place of our own.
Friend of a friend has suggested I get a pet. How would that work? Would I have to spend time with it? If so, could we get somebody to do that part for me?
Somebody needs to make a sign before this becomes a problem: If you’re going to vape wax, don’t do it on the campaign bus.
Protocol question: When you’re pouring out a 40, do you empty it, or do you do just enough to make your point?
Word,
HR mutha-effin’ C
The Super-Top-Secret, Extra-Personal Campaign Diary of Hillary Rodham Clinton is stolen each week by Lari Vine, the nom de guerre of an obscure playwright and screenwriter living in Washington DC. This diary is made possible by a grant from David Brock, who’s apparently still working out some issues. Not really, but how cool would that be?