The Jones v. Clinton Soap — A Continuing Serial Saga from American Politics Journal
Chapter I:
Susan Carpenter MacBimbo Re-Makes Paula — in Her Image
FROM THIS…
TO THIS…
TO THIS?…
You be the judge. Is Paula Jones for Real?
THURSDAY DECEMBER 9th 1998: NEW YORK -- As the yellow press, now lead by NBC, ABC, CBS and CNN line up outside the White House to gawk at the room where Paula Jones may meet Bill Clinton eye to eye, one has to pause and just start laughing at the scene she, and he will encounter. Although we don't believe the Clinton deposition in the Jones case will take place in the Map Room of the White House -- after all that's like inviting your local petty blackmailer to your and your wife's home -- we think the entire scene might go something like this:
Imagine Paula Jones, awakening that morning knowing there's something she has to do, but just can't remember. Her Mickey Mouse telephone/alarm clock AM/FM radio had gone off at 4:30 AM. It was now 4:42. What the heck is that tapping at the door? Paula hoists herself out of the the upper bunk of the RV Susan Carpenter MacMillan rented for the week and stumbles to the door. "This is nicer than my trailer," she thinks out loud as she passes gas from the strain of lowering herself to the floor. "Jeez, I gotta get in shape," she remarks to herself as last night's pepperoni pizza rises in her throat.
Paula peeks through the curtains and sees five people she knows standing in the mud around the RV. It's her new
hairstylist, Gerard; her makeup artist, Crystal-Bob; her massage therapist, Paulo; her manicurist Doina, and none other than Susan Carpenter MacMillan still wearing that stupid USC baseball cap that she thinks imparts a certain intellectuality to her otherwise biker-mom look.
"I hate that bitch!." Paula thinks as she pseudo smiles and let's them all in. "I'm sick of her changing the way I look. I liked my craggy teeth and my oversprayed big hair and that black-red lipstick that used to stain my turtle necks.
MacMillan: All right Paula, let's get to work. And I thought I told you NO ROLLERS! God, Gerard we're gonna have to iron her f&*$ in hair.
Jones: C'mon Sue, get off my back. I'm sick of all this crap.
MacMillan: Listen young lady, and I use that term casually, don't give me any lip. I have $300 thousand invested in you, I own you - and if you think you're gonna embarrass me and MY lawyers at the White House, you've got another thing coming. Now get in that chair, take off that tacky robe and lets get started! And... If you ever call be Sue again -- you'll be back to that dentist -- this time for a full set of dentures!
Jones starts to weep, stamps her bare feet and scrunches up her face about to spit at MacMillan.
MacMillan: Don't you dare you little vixen! I'll walk out of here right now and you'll be walking the pavement in about 5 minutes. Now get in that chair.
Paula begins to walk over to the beauty-shop style chair MacMillan borrowed for the RV yanking her rollers out and throwing them at MacMillan. One by one one they bounce off her forehead and fall to the stained carpet floor.
Gerard: Oh Susan, I can't do anything with THIS. We'll have to wash her AND treat her. Oh God!, what did I do to deserve this?
Gerard rushes her off to the tiny stainless sink at the back of the RV and begins scrubbing the Aqua-Net from her hair. Dio Mio, Pauletta, what did you do? What did you do?
Jones: Stuff it Gerard!
Macmillan picks up her cell phone and dials her "staging area" where Jones' lawyers are due to arrive any minute. "Hey,... whaddaya mean... oh cut the garbage, okay THIS IS CHEMICAL FACE calling SCAM MAN -- Okay! is that the right code name today. What moron came up with this code crap anyway. Yeah, sure I know we have to look presidential. Yeah, okay. Now you make sure that Perry creep isn't wearing one of those stupid white suits again today. He looks like a scooper at Baskin Robbins. And check their makeup. I don't know what they do to look that sallow. Yeah, okay and get back to me... bye. Oh Christ -- okay CHEMICAL FACE signing off.
By this time Gerard has washed the hair spray out of Paula's sticky locks and is applying some Kiehls Ultra-Straigtener in preparation to iron her hair. Paula squirms reaching for a now-flat Budweiser when a hand pops up from the lower bunk and grabs it.
MAN: Hey mama that's mine, he purrs. Come on in here baby, I didn't get enough of you last night.
MacMillan: Damn it Paula. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. I told you not to go out last night. I told you you needed rest! Who the bejeezes is THIS!
Paula's one night stand crawls out from the lower bunk clad only in some nylon thong underwear which shows a tattoo on his upper thigh of a monkey with the words "I ate at the "Y" " under it in red ink.
MAN: Who the f*&% are you blondie - Lucille Ball!? Get off my case. Paulakins, c'mere baby.
Paula breaks free of Gerard and tiptoes over to the man rubbing his crotch. Ummmmm she says. But MacMillan is too quick and with almost lightning speed cracks a half-filled bottle of Wild Turkey over the guy's head sending him to floor.
Jones: That's it Sue! I'm through. You go in there and lie to Clinton's face. I've had it with you and all these bullshit Christian mothaf&*^ers
Get yourself a new girl.
And with that, Paula runs out of the RV, dressed only in Calvin Klein panties and a tube top stained with spaghetti sauce. She zips smack dab into Gus, the security guy who picks up her up. "Paula, you've got to cooperate. Please. It's my job, and you know my family won't be "saved" if I let you go." With that, he throws her over the shoulder of his 7'3" frame and marches back into the trailer plopping her in the chair.
By this time the one-night-stand has been bagged and tagged and thrown into the back of his pickup.
MacMillan: Okay Paula. It's over. Let's go to work.
Jones: All right. All right. Just give me one of those pills. Please. Those little yellow ones. Wow. Zap! Puhleeeze....
MacMillan: No way tart. You have to be together today. We've only got an hour before the limo arrives. Let's get cracking.
In a flash Gerard begins to iron Paula's hair while Doina works on her nails, now cracked and brittle from a bender she'd been on the week before. "Ve're go-ink to have to re-vork dees nails Powla," clucks Doina, "Vhat a shame, Vhat a shame."
Paulo, the massage therapist, and one of Paula's ex-husbands, begins to massage her calves. Everything and everyone settles down except Susan, who's outside in the morning drizzle chain smoking Camels and tapping her spike heeled feet. Susan is worried. " This better come off. This BETTER come off," she keeps repeating to herself.
© 1998, 1997, American Politics Journal Publications Inc.