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.”
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