Bill Clinton

Amazing indeed. Actress Felicity Huffman gushed that Bill Clinton had introduced the world to “a whole new level of philanthropy on a systemic level,” and the universe will forever remain uncertain that she had any idea what she meant. Actress Maria Bello—and who knows more about politics than actors and actresses?—claimed that Bill Clinton had “empowered” sixteen million women around the world, and if the rumors I’ve heard about the notorious womanizer are true, she may be lowballing that figure. Actor Jason Segel summarized the William J. Clinton Foundation thusly: “Quite simply, it’s an organization that’s committed to doing what’s right.”

In other words, not one of you thespians, lesbians, and lesbian thespians has any idea what to say unless someone’s writing your lines for you.

Toward the concert’s end, Mr. Clinton—seeming a little drunk—and his daughter Chelsea walked onstage. If he wasn’t drunk, I can’t comprehend why a grown man in full possession of his senses would utter the following line:

Nobody ever climbs any ladder alone.

Mr. Clinton, sir? I’ve climbed at least two dozen ladders in my life, and every time, I did it alone. In fact, the more people you add to the ladder, I’d imagine the more difficult climbing it would be.

There is one thing I admire about Bill Clinton, and that is the fact that he has been consistently unfaithful to Hillary. Who in their right mind could put up with her? Bill’s blatant infidelities are the most humanizing thing about him. If he wants to exhibit his sharply curved, average-sized penis to women in Arkansas hotel rooms and plop a cigar or two inside an intern’s vagina, it’s none of my damned business so long as he’s causing suffering and distress to Hillary Clinton. And receiving oral pleasure while on the phone with Congress? Coolest thing I’ve ever heard a politician do.

But that doesn’t outweigh the fact that he’s one of the biggest socket wrenches in the globalists’ toolbox. He utters the word “global” as much as Eazy-E used to say “nigga.” Saturday night’s concert was littered with jargon about how “we’re all citizens of this world” and we need to “put a human face on the global economy” and how we need “peace without borders” and how globalism is coming whether we like it or not, so we better bend over and get used to it. Beneath all the gloss about humanism and empowerment and uplift and economic equality was a rigid subtext about us all being together and living together and sharing together and macro-managed together and squashed into a situation where we can never not be together ever again. First it’s our “common identity,” then it’s our common ID cards.

William Jefferson Clinton signed NAFTA—perhaps the biggest single blow to the American middle and working classes in the past generation—into law. He bears partial blame for the subprime mortgage scandal. When he left office, he left every American man, woman, and child nearly $5,500 deeper in debt than they were the day he took office. Then there’s Whitewater and Vince Foster and Chinagate and impeachment and perjury and disbarment and dead witnesses and multiple suicides.

So along comes Bill Clinton to remind the world that he hangs out with HIV-positive kids at Cambodian orphanages and wants to prevent tobacco-related deaths in sub-Saharan Africa and how he helped small businesses in Harlem and really hates malaria and spends sleepless nights crying about Haiti’s plight.

Pardon me, but I don’t think I have a dog in this here fight.

How does the average American benefit from his excessive bursts of philanthropy? During the other night’s concert, I don’t remember anyone making a peep about the average American, nor so much as acknowledging that such a species exists.

For the 2007 tax year, the William J. Clinton Foundation took in around $130 million, over a third of which came from government grants. So not only does the average non-cosmopolitan American taxpayer likely not benefit from his organization, they’re actually being forced to pay part of the bill for him to indulge his narcissistic messiah fantasies on his dusky, exotic, starving AIDS pets halfway around the globe.

Bubba, I realize you insist on stroking yourself, but I’m going to have to demand you do it on your own dime.