So, as you'll recall, we've been promised deja vu, circa 1992ish, by and for all who long for that ultimate Camelot annex, also known as Clinton, Part Two.
Given that the Blue Grass state (she doesn't seem to know or care that it's a Commonwealth, likely owing to her uncommon wealth, ahem) was the site of this revelation--that '... I'm gonna have my husband revitalize the economy 'cause, ya know, he knows how to do that... '--let's indulge in some metaphorical grass and take a little trip down memory lane, Palookaville, USA.
You're the proverbial fly on the wall... of the inside of Bill's skull. It's around midnight, and he's growing drowsy but not yet ready for sleep; former President Bill Clinton's in his upscale Harlem pied-a-terre, so convenient, allowing him to stay busy, so much to do, rebuilding that bridge well into the, then, near future to that century which was looking so very promising. Besides, the commute to sedate Westchester county's such drudgery, and Hilly's in town. 'Pillow's real cool' his racing mind reports, '... got a nice scent, new maid's touch, ah guess, kinda like... perfume.' The part of his brainpan assigned to narcissistic wordplay aimed at compensating for that 'dang' nose, his only bad feature he's been told by certain ladies, spikes, and his bulbous ol-factory organ 'manufactures' scatological imagery not unlike the Bard, that same compartment allows, pulling up something Ken Starr, playing at Laertes, might have put in Monica's naive mouth-- in addition to his own firmly advanced contribution-- say as Claudius of 'rank offense', 'it smells to Heaven'-fame:
"For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favors,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood;
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute
'Just like ole Ken, speakin for Heaven, bet he wears pink panties, impeached over some ….peach, dang fool prude, and old Johnny Fitz getting his Johnson stroked regular by the White House pool, and I don't mean Lyndon, neither…' Billy imagines getting Ken's goat. 'And it wadn't no minute, neither... Where'd it get him? Sinecure in Malibu, teaching law to wannabe lawyers at Pepperdine, not exactly Yale. Here's they not-so-morally strict sounding motto: "Freely ye received, freely give" (Matthew 10:8). Rest mah case... gotta 'member that one next time, in Davos... '
'It's too late for any more phone calls, business or friendship.' His huge mental Rolodex pulls up two recent calls. 'Mah two treasured... boys-come ta think of it, Summers and Rubin never did call me back' his newfound focus lasers, decompressing that famed compartmentalized brain pan. 'Yep, both of 'em turned out ta be a couple a cold bastards, like their predecessor, old Alexander Hamilton---all damn bankers at heart, skewin their advice in that direction' his candid regret-driven neurons fire away.
'Ta think that misogynistic Larry teamed up with Bob and Greenspan to beat up that gal Brooksley for darin ta call attention ta those damned mortgage de-rivatives... and usin my mantra- "the American financial system takes a major step forward towards the 21st century"-huh!' Bill is now bemused by the very prospect that Larry might get Obama's nod to helm the Fed and has him fed up to 'here', that 'here' being that same forehead covering his prolific frontal lobes whose relevant albeit boomerang-like appraisal of the then candidate Obama as a worthy getter of coffee after the fashion of Bill's White House's black staff. 'Finally got some gelt, as mah Jewish friends call it, and now that only son of a curr dog's gonna piss away the value of mah dollars?! Don't dang think so, gotta find a way ta torpedo that deal... Hell, Larry ain't gay, maybe ah could get him compromised with some, I dunno, intern... scratch that, too obvious... hates women... damn!'
Bill now sits up, punching his now warmer plump scented pillows, one for Larry, the other for Bob. The extra pillow to his right he leaves untouched, owing to Alan's wearing glasses. 'Right, the 21st century, if ya call it a derailed train, like that old one, The 20th Century, the one my momma took me on headin up ta New Haven and Yale' Bill's mouth now in reflexive pout, his upper lip eclipsing his lower in that trademark limbic display.12:07a is the readout on the LED clock he now stares at, while his well-traveled mind time treks, the former President, cum philanthropist now seeing '6:00a' on a decidedly low-tech clock face, on the very day of his dance with the less devil, more ingenue in a blue dress, his own particular 'ground hog day' redundantly reported by cheesy anchor Phil Punxsutawney on a day of perpetual gray, gray like the premature forest now atop his reawakened CPU's house. He's that other Bill, Mr. Murray, without the happy ending. He sinks back down to a supine posture, and flips the pillows-'That's better' he consoles himself.
But that Mitch Ryder tune from 1979 replaces the dull reportage about some furry creature's peeking out from its dark sleeping place, becoming a soundtrack to the indie horror nearing post-production by the former President's production company, 'Country Rhodes Prods.' It grows louder:
"... wearin her perfume, Chanel No. 5, got to be the finest girl alive, not too skinny, not too fat, she's a real humdinger, and I like it like that." A pillow now sits atop his face, his large over-manicured chubby hands slightly depressing it, as if to muffle that soundtrack, maybe for good? His overly bright mind keeps seeing 'blue' as 'blew'.
'No! Gotta world ta save' the take-charge neural net in charge of muting, if necessary and opportune, the blubbery limbic system it has learned to use for effect, responsible for that signature 'feel your pain' construct his lips dutifully portray on cue. He determines to do what his role model, JFK, would do: 'Just say f*** it', being careful to avoid old Mr. & Ms. Coitus, thank you very much, remember the definition of 'is' is important. 'Yeah, it's about sax, not sex' his Elvis-ometer country boy compartment chimes in, counseling his frontal lobes and, suddenly, Bill is back, '..like Burt Reynolds in that Woody Allen flick, when all those little white fellers get back, where they came from.'
As his eyes now close, peripherally spying 12:10a on the, now, high tech clock face Bill muses 'Gotta lay a new foundation for that 21st century bridge, yeah, call it infrastructure's bridge to somewhere, a somewhere where there ain't no crazy Summers, where Rubes ain't "in", somewhere over that Green Span'. His red-faced ardor, now, begins to subside, his limbic system counseling his limbs and other... extremities to, finally, relax. 'Gotta remember that one next time ahm in Davos, explainin stuff to the elites, they'll love it---'sides, no room in winter for... Summers, or Rubes or anything startin with 'Green' in that snow job factory... '
Bill flips the pillow once more-'Cool, very cool, nice scent, too, kinda like... Chanel No. 5'.
NOTE: Thought bubble over Bill's head reads as follows: "Sorry, Gore, and America fer all that Bush ah stuck ya with! G'night... this tom um gonna git stuff rot, swear on that same dang book ah took me that oath ' bout, well, you know... "