September 1998
s m u g
Mark Amerika


My fellow Americans, everyone is talking about my faults, my trust, my character. But what am I if I'm not the epitome of what my generation stands for? I realize now, as I come before you tonight, that I am the most likely outcome of what has been called the Baby Boomer generation. We have many faults, it's true, but our persistent need to constantly better ourselves is not one of them.

If you want, you can trace this persistence back to the selfish, me-too counter-culturalism that turned wannabe middle-class anti-authoritarians into new-age consumers. I was there. I know.

Or you can trace it back to my infatuation with Hillary, her wide horse's mouth and the endless row of teeth that spread a mile-wide smile for me the first time I laid eyes on her in the law library. Hell, you could trace it all the way back to the fact that I never really had a powerful father-figure to keep me straight about women and teach me the facts, like that there are only two things a woman can do well with her mouth, one being to constantly chatter about the man they love or the man they want to take into their wet, electric souls -- the other being this almost mechanical efficiency at enthusiastically embracing the one thing I've been carrying inside my pants for half a century.

I'm not even sure how this most recent one got into my pants, what with the secret service, the White House staff, my incredibly packed schedule. Not to mention the damn media, whatever that word means nowadays. I'm beginning to believe that it doesn't mean much, and even it did I'm not sure I would give a hoot. Fictioneers, that's what I call them now, fictioneers. But why don't they just leave all that make-believe to the novelists, the sit-com writers, the film directors?

I come to you today to ask a simple question: What, exactly, am I supposed to do? Stop being a man? Artificially deflate the economy of my desires so that the balance of power never shifts to the other, more feminine side of our collective psyche? I've worked hard at building my street-cred with women. And they know it. Sure they know. And that's why they have overwhelmingly supported me throughout this dilemma. The so-called soccer Moms. Single women too. Plenty of single women. Because they know I understand.

In fact, I'm sure it's this understanding, this trust of my knowledge, that gets them hooked on me in the first place. So what if that bond of understanding we form as two consenting adults is exactly the thing I use to manipulate their feelings about me. This is what "making a connection" with another human being is all about.

One thing is clear: I am one of them. I am one of them like no other President in the history of our fine nation.

Okay, so maybe they don't trust me. Hell, I don't trust me either. Which isn't meant to sound self-deprecating. I mean, I'm not psychotic, or manic, not like Nixon. I'm very controlled, maybe more controlled than any other man who has inhabited this office. But that's not the issue. I'm doing my job and I'm doing it to the best of my abilities and these hard efforts have proven to be worthwhile as it's all turning out good for our country, better than in a long time.

It's funny how at first everyone was saying that Hillary kept me on a leash, that when I had campaigned on the theme of two-for-the-price-of-one, that I was the loss-leader, or maybe they said "lost" leader -- whatever. Now they say I'm out of control, a loose cannon. Well, you can't have it both ways.

Meanwhile, the American People are simultaneously more prosperous and more uncertain of their futures than ever before. This is part and parcel of that strange phenomenon the trendy economists are referring to as The New Economy, whatever that is. I probably have a paper on it somewhere here in my office. But what I don't have a paper on is how The New Economy effects "the condition our condition is in." And I don't mean our financial condition. You just can't separate economics from desire. You can't.

Another President before me had to deal with the endless flow of scandal, ridicule, Congressional hearings, Supreme Court rulings. I've already mentioned his name. Tricky Dick is what they called him. Tricky Dick. And dang if my own Tricky Dick isn't somehow putting me in the same league of treachery as him. But I would suggest that this is absurd. That we have fallen victims to our own conceptual impotence.

Contrary to President Nixon, I don't bottle myself up in a flask of Scotch hiding in the Oval Office wondering where I went wrong and why everybody hates me. There aren't that many people that hate me. Excluding the right-wing nuts and crackpot media, of course. The Republicans' scorn is self-explanatory, but the media hates me because I remind them of the way it once was, of how exciting their own lives used to be before they sold out to the big corporate logo. Of course, this isn't to say that I don't find myself in their camp. Hell, I set up that camp. But there is a pure form of jealousy manifesting itself all throughout the press and it stems from a fascination they have with my ability to successfully run the country on one hand while, on the other, finding the time to make myself available to the various women who need me.

The message the media is sending to me is loud and clear: stop being what you are, stop going through your mid-life crisis, you are the President, you represent our generation coming to power and now you're blowing it. Well, somebody's blowing somebody and somebody else is getting jealous, that much is certain.

You see, it kind of makes it all look cheap to them. It brings their own sophomoric fantasies and premature ejaculations out into the open and shows how the network team they've signed on with is now turning them into sensationalist fictioneers always second-guessing their own better judgment. It must be difficult to deal with that kind of pressure, especially for the younger ones who really never knew what it was like to live on the other, more erogenous side of life called Paradise. The Sixties liberated us and the Seventies gave us license to experiment even more. Poor kids. Gen-Xers, they call them. All they ever knew as teenagers and young adults was Reaganomics and now they will do just about anything to see me eat raw crow, eat raw crow and take the Presidential helicopter back to Little Rock where I'll be out of the camera spotlight. Time for a new leading man, someone different to eventually rub out of the media lens.

And what about you, my fellow American viewers? What's it like living in the boring little suburbs full of strip malls and endless dreams about porking the babysitter or blowing the lawn-mower boy, which you'll never do, too much on the line, too much time and too much money. And besides, you're tired. You think: maybe I ought to try a double-dose of Viagra. An extra dose of estrogen. That's the least of my worries.

One thing I'll tell you, though, and I want to make this perfectly clear: Watergate wasn't some third-rate burglary, it was part of a greater conspiracy to alter the long democratic history of our country. My story is different. It's not Watergate, it's not Iran-Contra, it's certainly not the House Unamerican Activities Committee. It's about the pursuit of instant gratification. Simple as that. Sort of like the pleasure principle applied to our every day life. The creation and pseudo-fulfillment of our commodified desires. Something about the way our lives are marketed back to us in warp-form via the mainstream commercial media.

I'm talking about our so-called contemporary lifestyles. Our consumption patterns. My consumption patterns, idle entertainment anticipating a grand finale that will release me of all stress-related disorders, can be summed in one word: Monica. Monica is what every President needs, every business executive, every rock star, every bull-dyke lesbian who's looking for a submissive partner to jumpstart a life with. She is passionate, flirty, sex-savvy, permissive, masochistic, open to all sorts of experience, dangerous. The kind of accompaniment that transforms an ordinary encounter into something completely on the edge of ones experience. She is life itself.

And when life itself walks into your office at the end of a long day of emoting and gesturing in the general direction of a moderate political practice, when it walks in and lifts up its cocktail dress, blue and frilly with enough loose material to softly seduce your thighs now that your pants are down and the business of the nation is finally behind you or, as the case may be, directly under you, on your desk, where you are totally synchronized with the Other in an improvisational scene of hot, unrepentant intercourse not seen since the remake of The Postman Always Rings Twice (where is Jessica Lange now?), you do what any warm-blooded creature who calls himself a man would do, you accept your responsibilities and give yourself, fully, to the citizen who needs you, who is quite literally begging for it with her tongue lolling about the edges of her bottom lip in a sexy, seductive pout that hungers for your indulgence, all of your indulgence, so help you God.


But let's get back to the business at hand. I can only open up my heart to you here in this testimonial and let issue forth whatever it is I have to say. For how can a man, any man, even the President of the United States, be expected to keep his pants on when all the girl really wants is one chance, one chance to taste all of the power and all of the glory. I'm serious now. To not drop ones pants is about as unpatriotic as spies selling military secrets to the enemy. What kind of signal are we trying send here? That sex is bad? That power is un-erotic? I have thought these things through and let me tell you, the confusion, my entire perspective, it's become sort of unreal, like I just won the Powerball lottery and now have to imagine what sort of endgame my instant mortality will create for me, in the history books especially. If anywhere.

Shucks, this whole affair, if you can even call it an affair, is all a bunch of hooey. Hillary was right. It's part of some right-wing conspiracy. Some feller, I think his name was Reich, he wrote about this stuff a long time ago, something about The Mass Psychology of Fascism. You see, what happens is, you repress the collective sexual desires of a generation, for instance, our youth of today, and you do it by setting a worse example than ever, you call it abstinence or Just Say No, and of course you keep them ignorant, no sex-ed in the schools at all, keep it all locked up in their bodies so that they don't know what to do with it, and then you expose them to all of this temptation, all of this fashionable skin frolicking around on the tube or at the local shopping mall, a continuous parade of promiscuous entertainment, and of course what you end up with, what you get, is some corrupt version of Eden, everyone biting into the apple and spitting out the core. And my fellow Americans, I say it's about time we swallowed the core. Swallowed it with pride, sensuality, playfulness and verve.

I sense an opening here, a unique opportunity to claim what is rightfully ours, something beyond the mere he said/she said simplemindedness of our present national crisis. But first we have to get over our fear. We fear this opening more than we fear fear itself. And on top if it all, our do-nothing Congress is proud of its two-faced prudishness and the dullness that eats through its legislative body like worms set free on a rotting corpse.

We prefer to focus on the negative, the personal, the vindictive. Now the fact that there's always some nut out there who never got the girls and always got beat up in school, a kind of Nixonite but without any sense of foreign policy or diplomacy or even badly planned lowlife trickery, that he's out there looking for blood, that he sees it all as just more blood-sport and he wants me as his new kill, this is something we must, as a nation, be aware of.

He could be some milquetoast conservative who is afraid that germs are going to infest his body and so he always wears a layer of Saran Wrap under his business suits, to protect himself from the travails of the space-time continuum. He could be a multi-billionaire with a vengeance worse than Hitler after they tried to assassinate him. This phony patriot is out there, and he is convinced that he needs to drag every cell of my good-old-boy body through the thickest of dirt-down mud. It's part of an ongoing campaign that's been going ever since I took office and everyone of us is familiar with it.

All of this media attention on my pecker is part of the conspiracy, no doubt. Someone suggested it was connected to the John Birch Society. Oswald. The C.I.A. Cuba. Now, who here really gives a rat's ass about Cuba? We should just let those people be. Lift the embargo. See if the experiment works. With our help. I think it would eventually lead to a little loosening up of Castro's grip. Hell, once he dies, we can just buy out his brother, Raul. I mean, let's look at it realistically here: Russia is dead. Gone. Non-existent. So who's gonna stop us from just reenacting the Bay of Pigs and turning that sugar-mama into a democracy? Nobody, that's who. Communism in Cuba is history. Now if only I could convince that to my supporters down South.

I am sure of one thing. The devolution of our mainstream media into second-rate fiction-writers and wannabe Washington social elites, has completely altered our political consciousness forever. We will never hear straight news stories again. You want tragedy, we got tragedy. Titillation? Plenty of that. How about a little self-criticism? Hell, if I watch another media-bashing show being played out by those same media-celebrities who are taking serious news reporting to new lows, I think I'll croak. All they wanna do, now that O.J. is free and the rules have changed, is focus on my pecker. Focus on my pecker and talk about themselves and whether or not they should be focusing on my pecker. Self-psychoanalysis, self-immolation. Like eunuchs looking in the mirror.

Not like me. When I look in the mirror, I see heft. Presidential timber. Rising above it all, making her beg for it. And I am there to deliver.

People may say: but what about Hillary? Why does she keep insisting that she will "stand by her man"? She must be furious. What happened to the leash? But that's just it. I really think it's time that we, as a nation, rethink what it is we expect of our leaders. It's time for us to look at what's happening right before our media eyes and absolutely, positively, grow up.

My fellow Americans, open your eyes, really wide, and locate the kernel of reality that is steadfastly situating itself in our televised consciousness! See it and believe it. We're trying to send a signal here but nobody's really getting it. We're talking Open Marriage. Cross-generational sex. Role-playing games that mutually fulfill the desires of all of the consenting adults involved. Hello? Is anyone home? Is it 1984 again?

It's like we're suffering from willfully executed collective amnesia. You could probably trace it to Reagan, cable TV, cell-phones, the Internet, cheap air travel and the long promise of AIDs. The inability to think beyond our own morality and create the most free-loving country on the planet. Jack must be turning in his grave. I mean Hillary didn't even get to the beginning of it. The conspiracy. This whole thing started with Jack. His assassination. This is what we mean by right-wing conspiracy. It's the killing of our sex. Of our ability to become the most free-loving people on the planet.

Good old Jack. He would lay down on his sore back, prostrated and free, imagining what she would be like, what her role would be, thinking through the possibilities and fantasizing the noises she would make, or wouldn't make, and how she would respond, both sexually and verbally, to the fact that she was sucking the cock of the most powerful man in the universe. I mean, we're not talking Magic Johnson here, though no offense to Magic. And we sure ain't talkin' Wilt Chamberlain either although I will tell you with utter frankness that I don't, for a second, believe that he fucked all of those women in such a short period of time. We're talking between four or five women a day. That's simply outrageous. Not true. The Big Lie. I'm serious. You -- do -- the math.

Do the math and you'll see that all of this sort of trash-talking bimbo-hype is cheap, overrated, sensational, just for the sake of being sensational. Jack had it right. He was controlled. And I think I'm probably more controlled than he was or any other man that has lived in this office.

But there's control, and then there's control. There's finger-on-the-button control, one that is, in many ways, completely out-of-my-control yet solely linked to my home page, if you get my drift. That kind of control is by no means about to be compromised in any way, shape or form. We are the economic superpower of the world. We have the greatest military force in the history of mankind. That kind of control is all-too-easy to live with. To discern.

The other kind of control, the one that's got about 15 percent of the population, led by Mr. Kenneth Starr-fucker, all up in arms over the so-called cover-ups, moral ineptitude, and what they perceive to be the gross display of an imperfect model of hero-worship, this kind of control, when you come right down to it, is indeed part of my character, yes, character, and this character is perhaps the closest thing the boomers have ever had to a familiar figure in the White House.

It's like that old hippy question: "Can you relate?" Yeah, Man, I can relate. I inhaled. Big fucking deal. Let the Truth be known. And yes, I had a beard. Scruffy assed Ivy League intellectual taking a ride on the Marrakech express. People forget that I too know what it's like to reach up and kiss the sky, to flashback on to that time in our nation's history when the idea of an open marriage wasn't necessarily all that bad a thing.

But there's a difference between having an open marriage in the Seventies and having an open marriage in the Nineties, especially when it's broadcasted to the entire world via CNN International. After Ms. Flowers, they started playing up the supposed tryst with Ms. Jones who, for the life of me, I can't remember. It's not that there isn't the possibility of there being something specific to remember, but at least I'm being honest when I say I can't quite picture her in any hotel room at any time during my reign in Arkansas. Sure, she fits the description, the pattern, as they call it. Imagine that, a good-looking executive, like myself, with more power than anyone in the solar system, attracts an unending amount of attention from thousands, maybe tens or hundreds of thousands of various women all around the world, and he too, like every single able-bodied creature kicking and breathing, has a particular type of creature he's especially attracted to. What in God's name is so unusual about all of this? It's not like this everywhere. Here in the US, we make it seem like softcore porn. It's like my life has become a bad cliche that fills up lots of otherwise dead air time.

I mean, look at Mitterand. At his funeral, they were all there. The wife and the mistress. The various children. It was all so natural. So formal. It makes you wonder what it was that really changed things here. Way back when. Puritan revolutionaries. Must have been about the time they invented the term oxymoron.

Sometimes I wonder how we can be the richest, strongest nation on earth, and at the same time, the most puritanical? There's something there. I'm sure of it. This Reich feller probably could tell you. Maybe I'll research it once I get out of office. It would make a good paper at the Renaissance conference or some such happy get-along event.

The truth of the matter, my fellow Americans, the honest-to-God truth, is that I do not suffer from any disease of the heart. There is no malaise in my mental disposition. There is no secret hush-fund paying off my innocent victims so that they won't tell you the truth of what they know and when they knew it. Everything is now part of the public record. Read my lips: I am not a slut.

No, nothing of the sort. In fact, all this talk about sexual peccadilloes sending out the wrong message, about playing an unattractive role-model in a culture fast on its way to the ultimate moral degradation, this is all talk, talk-talk, and nothing more.

For I am setting an example for our nation's youth. I will go so far as to sat that I am stepping up to the plate and taking advantage of this unique historical moment. My fellow Americans, I am setting an example and am portraying a model of living that those of my generation are all too familiar with, those of us who came into active adult consciousness in the age of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, who opened our minds and let it all hang out in the age of John Shaft. You can summarize my role-model in one simple yet perfectly understood word, a word that simultaneously suggests my swaggering manhood and the pure rock of being I share with my male counterparts all throughout the animal kingdom. For, my friends, I am a stud.


I'm not a dud. Not a Nixon. Not a Dole. Not even a George Bush, although even George, and General Eisenhower, hell, every President since World War Two, has been known to have at least one mistress.

My pattern, as they call it, is not mysterious. The pictures are on the video screen for everyone to see. True, it's not the safe route. I'm not jacking in to the lone, quiet, obedient slave of my mistress fantasies who, answering my every need, will take me out of the slumber of normalcy.

I admit, I am attracted to a different kind of animal, a different creature whose loyalty goes well beyond whatever position I happen to be holding at any given time in my political life, one who sees through the facade of power and instead looks deep into the ocean of volcanic lust that pumps deep inside me, the man, William Jefferson Clinton.

We are all grown up now. We have all got to compartmentalize. I've got to compartmentalize. And so do you too, the American People. And all indications are that this is exactly what you're doing, and I am grateful for your understanding and am, with you, longing to get back to the nation's business.

in the junk drawer

and such
and such

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