WASHINGTON, Jan. 14--I still get a chill down my spine every time the sergeant-at-arms goes into that "hear ye, hear ye" stuff. Must tell Joanie to buy me some thermal underwear. My colleagues see me shivering and are beginning to wonder. If I am to faithfully discharge my duty to party and country, I must be strong, warm and unchafed.
Jan. 16--The new undies are great. Campbell said I looked flushed and asked if I'd been "tying one on" during potty breaks. I told him it was all the coffee we'd been swilling to stay awake. He agreed that the process was "a big snooze" and said he'd be ducking out this afternoon to "hang with some yuppie biker chicks" in Georgetown. I asked him if he would support my resolution to replace those currant scones in the cloakroom with good old American snacks like Ding-Dongs and Ho-Ho's. Before I knew it, he was flipping through this jewelry catalogue and asking me if my daughters couldn't use a few Ben Nighthorse turquoise belts. Guy's unbelievable.
Jan. 19--The scones were pretty well picked over this morning. Fortunately, Joanie slipped three packages of blue-and-orange Bronco Sno-Balls in my attache. Disagreeable day of rebuttal from Clinton's shifty-eyed defense team. Ended the session in bad mood, Sno-Balls all gone. Worse, Joanie forgot the wet-naps. A smart aleck from CNN asked if I thought the president had scored any points and offered me a hankie to wipe my face before going on camera. I smeared gooey orange marshmallow all over his fancy jacket while Helms and Hatch watched and giggled.
Jan. 20--Trent and Mitch not pleased with my interview yesterday. I was taken to the woodshed, so to speak. Told them I didn't know what came over me and vowed to cut down on the coffee and sugar. So today I had trouble staying awake while that White House blowhard Gregory Craig went on and on about what a weak case, blah blah blah. So blasted hot in there. Caught snoring by deputy sergeant-at-arms, who said something about keeping silent upon pain of imprisonment. Embarrassing.
Jan. 22--Finally, we get to ask questions. I sent one down asking why we can't get Little Debbie snack cakes in the cloakroom. Rehnquist must have misplaced it, because when my turn came, it was some flapdoodle from Old Man Thurmond about whether impeachment was a "disproportionate remedy" for obstruction of justice. I cornered Strom in the washroom and told him that, back in my horse-doctoring days, I never met an obstruction that couldn't be removed through surgery or purgation or by putting on the big gloves and manually exploring the rectum. He just stared at me. Well, what did I expect. The old coot. Day wasn't a total loss, though. Hatch told me this knee-slapper about a traveling salesman and a polygamist. Must write it down.
Jan. 23--Nodded off during Chaplain Ogilvie's invocation. Woke up in a cold sweat while that babelicious Nicole Seligman was calling for dismissal. She gave a good pitch, even if she is defending Mr. Shameless, but I hear she represented North during Iran-Contra, too. Must ask Ollie what he thinks about her. Tried to tell Mitch the polygamist joke. Forgot the punchline. Why didn't I write it down?
Jan. 24--Eddie Bryant, one of the House managers, asked me if I would like to go with them to question Monica Lewinsky. I asked if that wouldn't compromise my position as an impartial juror. "Nuts to that," Eddie said. "We'll sneak you in." Turns out Monica is a much bigger gal than she looks in those news clips. About sixteen hands high, with wide, childbearing hips and strong, supple fingers suitable for dairy duty. I was favorably impressed. Too bad she's so fast.
Jan. 25--My esteemed colleague Robert Byrd stood up to make a motion to dismiss the case. One of the guys sitting near me heaved this big, gobby spitwad at him. It missed Byrd and splattered on Rehnquist's shoulder. The old sourpuss looked right at me. Yeah, sure, like I'd do something like that. Get a grip, Chief Justice.
Jan. 26--Okay, so I did it. Big deal. Got to remember to tell this joke to Trent: Clinton and Gore go to lunch. Clinton looks over the menu and tells the waitress, "Give me a quickie." The waitress stomps off in a huff. Gore says, "Bill, it's pronounced quiche."
What a hoot.
