FlufflesGate: The Hidden Clinton Sex Scandal
From the files of Milfred P. Vanity, journalist at large
"My client has been abused and degraded by the most corrupt administration in the history of the Presidential office" the lawyer sitting across from me sputtered, his frothy jowls quivering. Certainly, this was no new charge; the accusation that President Clinton had extramarital sex with a young vulnerable female; and as I sat there in the dimly lit D.C strip bar I began to wonder what I had to gain by listening to yet another tale of corruption. Hadn’t the public indicated that it was becoming tired of titillating sex scandals? Could one more be what it would take to turn them against the media once and for all? Still, there was something different about this one, as could be well evidenced by taking a quizzical look at the barrister’s client whom was sitting next to him in the secluded booth we had chosen. She perched herself there, both demure and defiant, quietly smoking a thin cigarette (Virgnia Slims?) and lapping up a martini (twist, no olive.) There was something different about her, different from all the others. I don’t know what had tipped me off, whether it was silver collar around her neck or the dark trasluscent nose; the excessive body hair or the four pairs of nipples… His client was a dog.
And a dog with a story to tell. Fluffles was her name and she took one final swig of that martini before launching into her tale of woe. She’d been a long time friend of Socks, the Clinton cat, and had come up to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. on a visit with her master, who was there to bend the President’s ear about some environmental legislation. But from the first time the President had stooped down to pat Fluffles on the head she could tell something was different, something wrong. Her suspicions were affirmed later that night when, in the President’s study, over cigars and Brandy, the President picked up Fluffles and put her in his lap. "Let’s put it this way," Fluffles said, offering a description refreshing devoid of details, "There are ways to touch a dog and there are ways to touch a dog…" Pausing to order another martini, she looked down and then emitted a pained howl. "He fondled me," she quietly yelped.
"It’s nothing for you to be ashamed of," her lawyer offered.
One would hope that would be the extent of it. But it seemed, as with most Clinton scandals, there was more. Fluffles continued: "After that, I was apprehensive about being around the President. I tried not be alone with him. But a few days later it happened. I’m convinced he placed gin in my dog dish to loosen my morals. Then he used a jar of peanut butter to trick me into doing things… things that maybe technically weren’t sex (she spits out the word ‘technically’) but were sex to me."
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Hours after Fluffles and her attorney had, I was still sitting at that D.C strip bar. Every time I felt I should leave I was paralyzed by the swarm of thoughts that drilled their way into my head playing the mental images of what I have just heard. (Well, that and the cheapest happy hour prices this side of the Delaware.) What responsibility did I have as a journalist to investigate these charges, charges that could indeed topple a presidency that had been so seemingly impervious to assault? And would I have even have the gumption, the moral fortitude to take on the highest office of the land? These were the questions I asked the half empty gin and tonic in my hand. But for once, it had no answers.
And so, at 10:30 that night I found myself tracking down my editor at the paper for some sage-like advice. He sat, smoking a Cuban cigar, listening to an audio tape version of the latest Tom Clancy, lost in simple amusement.
"Did you hear about the accusation that President Clinton had sex with a dog?" I asked.
"The Lewinsky case?" he replied. "What rock do you think I’ve been living under?"
"No, I mean a real dog"
"What, Kathleen Willey? Sure she’s kind of old but…"
"No, you incompetent moron. A REAL DOG! As in ‘bow-wow, woof-woof!’"
"Ohhhh, the Paula Jones case! Of course I’ve heard about it."
Clearly I was getting nowhere.
I mused for a bit on the fact that Clinton’s enemies had not jumped on this chance to douse him in what could be his greatest scandal yet. Scarcely a peep out of them aside from Henry Hyde’s comments in front of the press on May 3rd of last year. "The American people will not tolerate sex with animals," he’d thundered, before adding, "Well, only from our rock stars. And as such I think we need to take a long hard 44 million dollar look at the newest set of allegations that have arisen about out morally empty President." Hyde’s accusation, however, had disappeared as soon as they’d arisen, when it was rumoured that White House officials had told him that a certain sheep was becoming "very talkative."
And so I’m left alone, holding a bag of secrets that could decimate and administration, but with nary a single shoulder to lean on.
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