Plans for a “reality” television show called “The Real Beverly
Hillbillies” has enflamed passions among some southerners, who
sense Hollywood is out to mock them and their kind. I’m not sure
what Hollywood is up to, save for trying to make some easy money
the typical Hollywood way: ladling out some more dreck.
As a confirmed hick, however, it’s my belief that being insulted
by Hollywood is another case of being called ugly by a toad, and a
stupid toad at that. One recalls those stories a few years back
about Ivy Leaguers opting out of law school and heading to
Hollywood to write the next generation of television shows and
movies. You can’t help but smirk. We all recycle, but to have to
fall back on the Hillbillies for inspiration is truly pathetic. Fox
television, not to be outdone in the numskull competition,
subsequently announced it would base a new “reality” show on “Green
Acres,” which is the Hillbillies in reverse.
The most interesting aspect of the Hillbillies drama, at least
for some of us, is who CBS will choose to play the starring role.
“The network is looking for a rural, lower-middle class family to
move to a Beverly Hills mansion,” said one story; another explained
that the “mountainous” regions of several states, including
Arkansas, are being combed for the starring family. This of course
brings to mind one prominent hick family: That of W.J. Clinton, who
was not long ago sniffing around for job in the entertainment
industry. The other night he said he’s considering other options
but that’s probably because the right opportunity hadn’t arisen.
This one would be perfect for him, and might actually serve a high
public purpose.
It would be perfect for Bill, of course, because it would put
him before the cameras, which would certify his existence. It would
also provide him a free place to live, which is a somewhat habitual
concern with his clan. The public would be served, or might be
served, if the Clintons were actually transformed by the
experience. For let us admit: The Clintons have lived the
supersized version of the American Dream, to no apparent avail.
They’ve had maids, butlers, drivers, mansions, and even their own
jetliner. But all of this was never able to vanquish their Inner
Rube. Perhaps one more time through the golden gauntlet will do the
trick.
There is no doubt the Clintons have had all the advantages of
wealth, though not of the self-earned type, which differentiates
them from Jed Clampett, who became rich after an unexpected oil
strike. Not the Bill has complained. Once ensconced in public
housing he could order a Big Mac and ten would appear. He could
order a pizza and one would also arrive, borne by the world’s most
famous Intern, who also provided dessert. Yee-hi, Bill
observed.
Hillary, meanwhile, could order clothes cut so fine that her
billowing glutei seemed to disappear. She handed a single grand to
a courtier and watched it turn into real money. Her servants baked
her cookies, raised her child, and clocked the comings and goings
of her itinerant husband. The Clintons didn’t pay rent, mow the
yard, sweep the carpet, or change the oil. They had it all.
But they seemed to get trashier as time passed. They never
really left Dogpatch. Indeed, linking them to Dogpatch defames that
fabled place. Most trailer parks and dark hollows have covenants to
keep out people like the Clintons.
Despite all their blessings, neither lost a highly developed
talent for lying, though maybe talent isn’t the right word. Love
may be more accurate — true love. They lied to grand juries,
friends, cabinet members, and indeed the whole wide world and
heaven besides. They stiffed their lawyers. They “lost” subpoenaed
documents. They cried fake tears, bit lips that trembled on cue,
and when in real trouble convened clergy.
They spoke of adopting orphans and were surrounded by fine
furnishings, which Hillary reportedly hurled at Bill. They could
treat the help like dirt — firing cooks, ransacking the travel
office, and berating aides for petty infractions. We never saw them
kick the dog but who would put it past them. While we all mourn
Buddy’s death, those who suggest it may have been a suicide cannot
be dismissed out of hand.
Then there were the final days in office. Much of that time was
spent selling pardons to crooks, cronies, and other sleazes. They
had lived at the nation’s premier address for eight years, and on
the way out sacked the joint. They would have taken the linoleum
off the kitchen floor if Hillary could have found a pry bar.
So it’s clear enough that this couple has, as of yet, been
untouched by the blessings of wealth, status, and opportunity. That
is hardly an advertisement for the American Dream. Quite the
contrary. It makes a mockery of it.
Maybe one more gilding will do the trick. Or, perhaps not. But
there would be some amusement in watching Bill pluck chickens
around the cement pond with a few assorted bimbos while Hillary
thrashes the help. It’s also likely they’d invite the other
“reality” couple over for dinner. We assume Ozzy would open the
invitation, roll his eyes, and say “I’m not breaking bread with
that ****ing yob.” That would be worth watching.
