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.
