Jan. 14, 1994 — In Moscow, saw the ballet
today. It was snowing, and on our way in I playfully started a
snowball fight with Naina Yeltsin. I kicked her ass! All these
Russian soldiers came running over to help her, and I let loose a
hail of snow and ice, just to show them who was boss. They cut and
ran, crying like little girls. Chickens. I think I broke an arm on
one of them. Ballet was boring. Tried to order a chili dog and a
beer, but all they had was caviar and wine.
May 30, 1996 — Muslim Women’s League luncheon
in L.A. today. It started out just peachy, but then I noticed this
one woman in a hijab, and she had really big shoulders. And
stubble. I grabbed her hijab and ripped it off, and just as I
suspected, a male suicide bomber leapt up and began shouting “Death
to America” and “Die infidels!” Not on my watch, baby. Even though
he outweighed me by at least 80 pounds, I swept him onto my
shoulder in one swift motion and tossed him through the adjoining
table, where I grabbed a salad fork and held it to his throat while
forcing him to reveal the location of three missing nuclear
warheads stolen earlier that morning, a fact known only to me and
my secretary. Eight Secret Service agents in the room, and I’m the
one who locates, unmasks, and disables this guy? Well, that is why
those guys look up to me so much.
Sept. 26, 1996 — Lakewood Hospital, Cleveland.
Toured the maternity ward of the hospital with this little gnome,
state Senator Kucinich, when out of nowhere some maniac rushes in
and starts babbling about UFOs. It took me a second to realize that
it was Sen. Kucinich who was going on about UFOs, and he hadn’t
even noticed the maniac wielding a knife and a stick of butter. I
had to act immediately to save those babies. Thinking fast, I
grabbed the nearest thing I could and hurled it at the maniac.
Fortunately, Sen. Kucinich was OK. But the impact of his little
head hitting the maniac square in the solar plexus was enough to
disable the man, and I was able to detain him until authorities
arrived. I found out later that all he wanted was universal health
care.
Oct. 11, 1998 — Sofia, Bulgaria. Coffee with
first ladies of unpronounceable names, from countries with names
almost unpronounceable names. So, I was sitting with Antonina
Stoyanova, first lady of Bulgaria, and Lidra Meidani, first lady of
Albania, having a cup of Eastern European coffee that tasted like
Bill’s socks, when we began taking sniper fire from an unidentified
location. Nadya Gligorova, first lady of Macedonia, was hit. Nadya
Constantinesceau, first lady of Romania, pointed to a balcony in
the hotel, and I, as I am wont to do, leapt into action. I grabbed
Shtefka Kuchan, first lady of Slovenia, and threw her under the
table. Mioyara Roman, wife of the chair of the Romanian Parliament,
was so hysterical I had to slap her before I could tell her to run
for cover behind the bar. She broke a heel on the way and barely
made it. (Note to self: Don’t buy any Romanian-made high-heels.) I
dragged Nadya Gligorova to safety, removed the bullet with a
hairpin, dressed her wound, and left her behind a giant ficus tree
while ordering the rest of the first ladies to take cover. Then I
reached into my purse, whipped out my Beretta 9 mm, braced my left
arm with an overturned martini glass, and took aim. Bam! I watched
with a grin as the sniper fall from the balcony and landed in a
punch bowl. Verna Ylmaz, wife of the Turkish prime minister, asked
me if all American women were such good shots. I said, “No, just
me.”
