I’m not really much of a fan of American presidents, but last night I found myself dreaming that I was one.

Number 42: Bill Clinton.

It’s a little hazy now, but I recall smoking cigars with Monica Lewinsky and stuff
And she was wearing this blue dress
And then the next thing I knew, I was in court, or something
Then Hillary became president and divorced me and I was sad because I loved her, she just wasn’t very accommodating in bed…
And then I was drowning my sorrows and I bumped into Monica again and it was kinda awkward at first, but then we got to talking and I found myself apologizing to her for the first time for lying to the world and denying that I’d ever banged her on the oval office table about, oh, a dozen or so times, but the liberty of the free world had been at stake!, or some bullshit, and she cried and I comforted her and yaddayaddayadda, one thing led to another and then we were in bed and I was eating giant marshmallows off her belly and then I woke up and my pillow was gone.

Weird.

Tonight I’m hoping for a JFK/Marilyn Monroe dream, but with my luck I’ll end up being someone else. Like that freaky-haired Einstein dude.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. The man did get a lot of pussy.

Guess there’s nothing like a little Theory of Relativity to get a girl Moist.

I’m more a Big Bang theorist, myself.

: )

I once stalked Bill Clinton.

He was here for a big meeting in 1999.

The place he was staying at was pretty close to the place I was working at.
As in, right next door.

There was a lot of security.

I rode a V4 motorbike and wore leathers back then.

It was pretty easy to spot the undercover cops. They were the ones who were busy trying to pretend they weren’t undercover cops, while writing down your license plate and running your details through the Big Brother database.

I got kind of sick of having four motorcycle cops pull in behind me just minutes after leaving home each day, then following me pretty much all the way to work.
Then four motorcycle cops would pull in behind me when I left work and follow me pretty much all the way home.

But, on the flipside, it was sort of a compliment that they clearly considered the D-Man to be a security risk.

The motorbike cops weren’t very good at their job though.
I worked out that I could easily lose them if I made sure my route too or from work included passing by a donut shop.

I was working for a news organization at the time.

People covering the meeting in the city were meant to be police-accredited, which involved being security-vetted.

I had no such accreditation. I wasn’t part of the “key team” covering the meeting.

Unfortunately, those who did have accreditation were not working on the Slow News Night that I was rostered on for.

One of the bosses wanted me to get inside Clinton’s hotel and see if I could find out where he was going that night, so they could follow him.

I was meant to be finishing my shift in 20 minutes, and my wife was picking me up.
And I didn’t have that accreditation thingee, so they were hardly likely to let me anywhere near the hotel, but ahhwhatthefuck. Worth a crack.

I strolled on up to the front doors. And, bugger me – a dozen or so cops let me walk right on through, unchallenged.

I had to go through a metal detector, which was manned by Clinton’s crack US security staff.

I put a pocket knife in the plastic tray. They picked it up. Looked at it. Gave it straight back to me. Fucking sweet.

I went straight up to the bar. I asked the barmaid where Bill Clinton was. She said he’d just gone down to the basement carpark and was about to leave to go visit a café. She gave me the name of the café.

I said thanks and went to leave.

But at the front door I was stopped by one of Clinton’s security gorillas, who put his hand on my chest and asked me …

“Where ya going?”

“You don’t have accreditation?! How’d ya get in here?”

I was tempted to give “teleportation” as an answer.
Instead,

“Through those doors right behind you”.

His hand was still on my chest and he was now trying to push me back further inside. I was resisting the urge to ninja chop his nose off, but the first rule of Secret Ninja Fight Club is “Don’t start shit when there’s a billion cops watching”.

Fortunately, one of the city’s highest ranking police officers recognized me and stepped in.

“He’s OK”.

But Sock Monkey’s hand was still on my chest. So I placed my hand on his.

“Mmmm, you gots nice, soft hands there, Honey.”

That did the trick. He walked away.

The cop said there was a bomb scare and everyone (including Bill Clinton in his vehicle downstairs) was going to have to stay put for a few minutes.

No probs. I called my boss, filled him in. He scrambled a car and a photographer.
Then I went back to the bar and had a couple of drinks, on the company.

I was able to leave 15 minutes later.

My wife was waiting for me outside work.

I told her of my adventure, which didn’t actually include setting eyes on El Presidente.

But D-Missus did:

“Clinton? Oh yeah, I saw him. He passed by this intersection a few minutes ago. He waved at me.”

Then he stopped the car and offered her a cigar. She still has the blue dress.

: )