Impeachment and other pleasures of the flesh by Jon Worley
Six out of ten folks in this fine nation of ours think that the Prez engaged in some sort of consensual connubial relations with Monica Lewinsky. The same six out of ten folks say they'd lie about it, too, if some smart-ass lawyers started asking personal questions.
Well, duh.
What this latest bit of extraneous opinion (courtesy of the New York Times) means is that even if Kenneth Starr manages to craft a significant case against the Prez, it's pretty doubtful that even a spiteful birdbrain like Dick Armey would open up impeachment hearings. Hey, Congress didn't jump on the Trickster's back with the impeachment stuff until Nixon's approval ratings fell below 20 percent. And seeing as Clinton's numbers are still in the 70s (pretty amazing since he has yet to garner 50 percent in an election), I don't think any articles of impeachment are in the offing.
But "impeachment" is a great word. We shouldn't let a silly thing like common sense and indignation at the violation of personal privacy get in the way of its regular use. While hanging out the other afternoon, it occurred to me that impeaching would make a great name for some sort of sexual technique.
As I've kinda fallen off on my manual reading the past few years, I'm at a loss as to what a sexual impeachment might constitute. I decided to call up David Kelley, the creator of such shows as Ally McBeal and Picket Fences. More to the point, David Kelley is the guy who wrote the "Venus Butterfly" episode of L.A. Law. Serious woo-woo kinda stuff. I figured he'd be gold on this concept.
Unfortunately, David Kelley was too busy impeaching Michelle Pfeiffer (it's okay; she is his wife, after all) to take my call. Bummed, I called up my old acting buddy Christian Slater, who's finishing up his sentence for drug and assault convictions.
"You call me in jail to ask about sex? What are you, some kinda jerk?"
After a few more less friendly words, he hung up. When I rang again, the kind folks at the Brentwood Penal Spa said Mr. Slater was indisposed and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
My Hollywood connections exhausted, I figured I was gonna have to come up with this one myself, a task I did not relish. I may be doggedly determined, but creativity has never been my strong point.
A few ground rules. No involvement of peaches. Mind you, I'm all in favor of peaches in bed, particularly overripe ones that are ready to drop their juice at the slightest abrasion. Right. So while peaches may be keen, they shouldn't be involved in impeaching. That would be too easy, you see.
No politicians, either. Like most couples, Barbara and I often wander up to Harrisburg to pick up a bored legislator for an evening of fun and frolic (they're surprisingly amenable to such propositions). The under-21 clubs are usually the best hunting grounds. We got that tip from our esteemed State Senator, Dan Delp, a guy who made the mistake of paying for such an evening (he didn't want to hang with us, but instead wandered off with a couple of hookers) with his Senate expense account. The trial is next month.
No use of polling data. None of this "Seventy-nine percent of naked men prefer to have coconut milk, curry powder and honey spread all over them, creating the wonderful Pad Thai Valentino dish." There's just no way to ascertain the veracity of such claims, and after working the phones for a couple hours, the mood kinda slips away. That's not good. That might get you impeached (the less desirable definition, that is).
Lastly, no use of the various rumored particulars of the Clinton-Lewinsky affair. Specifically, no hummers in the closet. Which shouldn't be a problem, because in the real world people stuff their closets full of crap they don't want to see, leaving precious little space for fellating.
So what's left? Well, the remaining sorts of penetration of various orifices and stroking of sensitive parts. A nice combination of which just might constitute a proper impeachment. Maybe with a little role-play, say, a tobacco lobbyist offering a southern representative a bribe. This wouldn't violate the no politicians rule, unless you or your partner happens to be an elected official. In which you probably wouldn't want to be screaming "Impeach me" at the top of your lungs anyway.
Oh, and one more important thing: One of you has to be wired without the other's knowledge. A time-honored tradition in impeachment cases. It's a little known fact that Andrew Johnson, our only impeached Prez, had a taping system. Most of those tapes consist of meetings with northern Senators who keep calling him "you dumb little cracker", which loses its amusement factor after you've heard it a couple hundred times. Of course, everyone knows about the Trickster and the Trippster. I realize this requirement violates the rule about "particulars", but as every writer knows, you've got to know the rules to break them.
So that's a lame excuse. Impeach me.
Baby.
Jon Worley figures his new spin will make folks see all those "Impeach Clinton" bumper stickers in a whole new light.