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CAN’T BE TOO CAREFUL
Associated Press avoids any confusion:
Former U.S. President Bill Clinton, second from right ...
(Via Currency Lad)
he’s pinching that front puppets bum isn’t he?
poor hilary, only 2 years out from her big election and her husband still cant keep his hands to himselfPosted by eeniemeenie on 2006 12 04 at 05:31 AM • permalinkOh, these things always confuse me. Let’s see, AP says Bill Clinton is second from right. Ok, that would be on this side ... one ... two. Ok, that’s him. No, damn, I must have counted from the left.
Posted by wronwright on 2006 12 04 at 07:00 AM • permalinkpoor hilary, only 2 years out from her big election and her husband still cant keep his hands to himself
Bubba is practicing for his return to the White House. All those female interns, y’know!
Posted by The_Real_JeffS on 2006 12 04 at 09:29 AM • permalinkLooks like a reunion of his Cabinet. Incidentally, wasn’t it Bill who promised us a Cabinet that “looks like America”?. He must have meant that portion of America that looked like Robert B. Reich.
#9: wronwright, this is what comes of driving the British-made Tardis; that whole right-hand-dashboard-steering-wheel thing is throwing off your sense of direction. Clinton is the one who looks like a somewhat overweight Cecil the Turtle.
Photo caption should read….
“Bill Clinton travels to India to try to score some muppet tang.”
Posted by joe bagadonuts on 2006 12 04 at 09:59 AM • permalinkI notice the school is in ``Cuddalore’’ district in India. Perhaps the name led Bill to think that the locals were extremely, umm, affectionate.
And yes, #4, his age is showing - guess the makeup man didn’t make the trip this time.
Posted by Sonetka's Mom on 2006 12 04 at 10:44 AM • permalinkI got off the elevator and ambled down the hall, carrying a large bundle under my arm. Pretty swank: marble floors, potted palms and a huge mirror in a gilded baroque frame that looked like something out of Mussolini’s bathroom. I finally found the office I was looking for: “Wronwright, Wronwright and Wronwright, Tax Attorneys.” I pushed open the massive oak door and walked in.
In the waiting room, behind a mahogany desk the size of a ballroom floor, sat a secretary. Her black hair fell in a layered cascade to well below her shoulders, and in a pale blue alpaca sweater that must have shrunk in the wash I could tell she had a rack just right for an anxious tax attorney to bury his face in on those days when the clients’ W-2’s weren’t adding up. She raised her slightly hooded doe eyes and gave me the once-over.
“You know, I’ve seen guys in old movies who wear hats like that, but never one in real life. So, are you investigating the Black Dahlia murder or something?”
“No, I already solved that one. It was suicide.”
“She was cut in half.”
“She was determined. Listen, dollface, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to stand here cracking wise with you until you get off work this evening, but this package is getting heavy. I’m looking for Wronwright; the second one on the nameplate, I believe.”
Before she could answer, an interior office door opened, and an elderly, but obviously fit and well-heeled client came bouncing out, rubbing his hands together in a satisfied manner; I figured him for a banker who had just found out that not only could he foreclose on the orphanage, he could get a big tax write-off on the whole thing, to boot.
Wronwright saw me and motioned me in.
He went back to his desk – a highly ornate affair that looked like it had belonged to a particularly shrewd Doge of Venice – and remained standing. He pursed his lips and was getting geared up to give me his schoolmarm’s lecture on reliability, I could tell, but then he noticed the package under my arm. His peepers rounded like the eyes of a barn owl that’s just seen a fat rabbit faint under his perch.
“Is that . . .?”
“That’s right, Wronwright. It’s the stuff that mead is made from”
He clawed at the package like Casper Gutman unraveling the cloth swathing the Maltese Falcon. “My antique Sumerian still! How were you able to recover it?”
“Let’s just say that Junior Johnson now has the shiniest mag wheels in town. And as kind of a two-for-one special, I’ve also managed to locate a few other items that were pinched. They’re back at my office; you’ll have to send a truck around to get them. And remember Wronwright: deadbolts. They’re a good investment.”
I touched the brim of my hat in the detective’s salute and walked out. As I passed the secretary’s desk, she stood up and gave me a piece of paper.
“Six o’clock.”
“What about six o’clock?”
“It’s when I get off work. My address is there in the note.”
I tipped my hat to her and winked. “I’ll be along to collect you. Look for a canary-yellow ’38 Packard. And wear a sweater – that sweater will be fine. It’s a little breezy out.”
#25 Auntie: I am reliably informed by women of impeccable breeding, good taste and judgement - i.e., my mother and Mrs. Paco - that not only is Clinton unattractive in the purely physical, aesthetic sense, as it were, but is so transparently insincere, devious and phony that their man-radar would never even have noticed him. He is - or was, for some women at any rate - a sex symbol only because we live in a remarkably shabby age.
Paco, years ago my mum asked me why I wouldn’t vote for him. I said except for the looks (Klinton’s taller & his hair isn’t as curly), he’s a twin of the jerk I used to be married to. The word I used was “smarmy.” Nowadays, he’s just icky. Glad your ladies have such exquisite taste!
My grandmother voted for him anyway, but I cancelled her out.
Paco
Chaste, chased, or Chaise.
Cheers
Posted by J.M. Heinrichs on 2006 12 05 at 12:07 AM • permalinkActually, that’s the closest to ‘right’ Clinton’s ever been…
Posted by richard mcenroe on 2006 12 05 at 09:31 PM • permalink
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It could be Jamil Hussein…