Dear Diary,
Thank Yahweh nobody’s asking me about the Israel-Hamas thingee. Let John Kerry stand out there with his schmekel in his hand, ‘cos no sane person can explain my party’s position: A bunch of Palestinians start firing rockets at Jewish kindergartens during coloring time, and emptying tank guns in the direction of anybody who can spell bagel–basically, Israel is getting their schoolyards treated like a bachelor party machine-gun-range weekend in Vegas. When Israel fights back–meaning they dare to complain that maybe there are better ways for Palestinians to seek a redress of grievances than to treat four-year-old Israeli girls like tributes in "The Hunger Games"–my party tells them something like, be patient, or, my personal favorite, the bombs don’t always go off, so it’s not so bad. And all this financed by an Arab world that owns more land than Alexander the Great on a good day, in order to get control of a spit of shitty geography about the size of a thyroidal Six Flags. In my party, this day-for-night rejection of reality gets cheered on as thoughtful policy. Not that I’m going to do anything different–how can you improve on that when you have 55 percent support from American Jews at the same time you’re writing checks to the people who think Holocaust is an Arab word for "good start"? So, sure, let ’em ask me about my hair instead. I’m a Clairol girl.
Which reminds me of the time I met Yasser Arafat, who had come over to the White House when I offered him some of my old clothes. (Don’t ask.) Anyhoo, whenever he’d ask me something, I’d say "Yessir, Yasser," then pretty much laugh my ass off. He didn’t get it, but it was funny to me.
Speaking of intractable problems and guys who are famous despite never having done anything, how about that Joe Biden? Is this guy a hemorrhoid on two legs or what? He’s like a See ‘N Say Farmer Says, but the chicken says moo. This plug-headed dweeb says more unintentional nonsense than a Tourette’s guy at a Jeopardy tournament. Oooh–that reminds me. Here’s a line I want to use at the debates, if Dork-us Day makes it that far. When somebody asks me about drones, I’m gonna say, "Speaking of drones, why don’t you ask Joe Biden?" Big laughs will ensue, and Hillary will be the life of the party once again, and I’ll show all those kids in high school who didn’t want me to come to their stupid parties, which I was too busy to go to anyway because I was studying to be the President of the FREAKING United States while they were being all cool and stuff–well, they weren’t cool, and they should see me now (Oh, they do–I’ve looked up every one of them on Facebook, but not friended them, because I don’t want them to think I care, which I do NOT) because now I’m the big shot and they’re doing their silly-ass jobs with their lame-ass families and their small-time lives. Hillary wins! (Oh–and you can suck it, Steve. I didn’t want to go to the prom with you anyway.)
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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 bunch of Facebook Likes from lefty college students, who know that clicks don’t change lives but who can’t be bothered to get up and, you know, actually do something themselves, given that they have to study for that art history test and that they really, really need to save money so they can afford Starbucks. Plus there was that frat party last night, and I’m totally, you know, wasted just now. Hang on, I have another call.
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