Nobody Likes A President Without A Zipper In His Chest
By Bill Clinton
The media very rightly scrutinize President Bush's resting heart rate and attention to physical health. The focus very effectively illustrates just how out of touch the man really is.
I used to cruise into McDonald's and double-fist the Big Mac on national television to show I was Everyman. Once my insatiable lust for fat metastasized, my Mickey Dee visits subsided, and gave rise to a bedside intravenous pick line with pure adipose pouring into my forearm. Plus, I spent a lot of time not sleeping with Monica Lewinsky.
People said they could hear my arteries hardening. I told them that my arteries were hardening in effigal solidarity to all those ready to throw a calcified clot and go headlong into the breakfast table. Many applauded. Awareness was at an all-time high. If you've been on the business end of a rib spreader, then I can talk to you. You are America.
My point is, people love flawed, weight-contingent diabetic ex-presidents whose wives cause swine to run into bodies of water. Mr. Bush's inordinately high health quotient will not gain him populist points. My own bypass operation unified more pillow-clutchers with one news cycle than a million congratulatory kudos phone calls to Lance Armstrong.
Cheryl Crow won't return my calls.
I offer Mr. Bush the following. Stop covering up your mortality by adding years to your life. Sure, you may look good in a suit, but what good is that mid-50's GQ allure going to do you when millions are gathered around my casket lamenting my recidivist stroke?
But you go ahead and exercise Mr. Bush. We'll see who's still standing in '08.