Gray Davis came out swinging this week. No, not the part about his impending impeachment and execution at San Quentin and how honored he is to be facing a fate similar to the one faced by America’s last elected president who while Al Gore was inventing the Internet was introducing the word “recall” into the American political lexicon.
What we meant is that Davis came out as a swinger this week. It’s a multifaceted role. His wife, for instance, let on that her guy packs a mighty smooth golf swing. Right now he’s “averaging about a 15 handicap.” (Er, Mrs. Davis, a handicap is about an average.) With patented Davis family defensiveness, she added that when her Tiger played for the Stanford Golf Team, he had a much lower handicap. His dominant style extends to sandy terrain. Hollywood killer blonde Cybill Shepherd, unable to face a future with Gov. Schwarzenegger, revealed that eons ago she and Gray hit it off in Hawaii. She mistook him for Jack Lord. Or was it Bruce Willis. But boy the guy could kiss, even in coat and tie, the original Heartbreak Kid. Now the neglected Mrs. Feinstein is on his trail, swearing to defend her new heartthrob to the bitter end. She still gets goosebumps from the political ads Gray once ran depicting DiFi as prison bait as disreputable as Leona Helmsley. Now she’d like to star with Gray in a remake of Sunset Boulevard.
That’s the thanks Mrs. Davis, a.k.a. Sharon Davis, gets for the staunch defense she’s launched on behalf of her heroic hubby. Trooper that she is, she knows a man as gifted as Gray has to be shared with one and all. You can read all about it on her special “blog,” though maybe she intended to call it a “blob,” given how spelling-challenged the site turns out to be. She wants to defend Bill Clinton against Ken Starr over what she calls “White Water.” She wants to attack the oil-thirsty vice president but calls him “Chaney.” (Perhaps she was confusing him with Gray’s role model Lon.) She brags about test scores improving under husband’s rule, though her syntax betrays an inability to benefit from the new educational climate. (“The basis for the energy crisis is based…” she writes at one point.)
Saddest is her having to defend the indefensible. Hillary would have called it a “zone of privacy.” Sharon might as well call it the Twilight Zone. Imagine Jackie Kennedy writing something like this: “While newspaper profiles have suggested that my husband and I have few friends, they inevitably come to this conclusion by interviewing people we rarely see socially.” A hundred eighty degrees later, she concedes, “Fortunately, we have many friends in politics.”
As a writer to No-Recall.com, which houses Mrs. D’s blob of a blog, warns, recall means Californians not only will lose Gray Davis. But “we will also lose the best First Lady that California has ever had.” Mrs. Maria Shrivernegger may have something to say about that.
As time goes by, the comedic liberal formerly known as Al Franken grows ever more unfair and unbalanced. After a prank akin to a streaker interrupting the Kentucky Derby or Indy 500, lil’ Al has instigated a self-recall. His career ender? Trying to seduce Attorney General John Ashcroft into divulging his thoughts on matters most personal and prurient. In so doing, teensy Al lied and lied and said he’d already earned the cooperation of such men as Bill Bennett and Rick Santorum. On top of everything else, he wrote his missive on stationery bearing the deadly serious name of the Harvard Kennedy School’s Shorenstein Center — one sin too many. To save his sorry skin, and to prevent the relocation of the Shorenstein Center and his own person to the Guantanamo precinct, Franken has apologized to A.G. Ashcroft without once blaming his demise on Republican plots to turn back the electoral clock. It takes a big man to admit he’s hopeless and beyond salvaging. Maybe this EOW award will kick-start what’s left of his blown engine.
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