Maybe you’ve heard of him? Tall, sexy. Used to be President of the United States?
Last night he spoke at the Democratic National Convention and Bossy is here to report: he’s still got it. His easy style and no-nonsense argument nearly made Bossy forget that she wanted to break up with Bill Clinton a few months ago when he was out on the campaign trail making a spectacle of himself.
Ah, Bill. Bossy is glad she didn’t break up with you—but rather recognized it was just the price you had to pay because, at the end of the day, you wanted to sleep with your wife. Of course, not as much as you wanted to sleep with Barack Obama, and about that? Who doesn’t.
But last night you were in the zone—just like the day you and Bossy met.
It was the fall of 1992 and you were the presidential nominee for the Democratic Party. Bossy was living in a one-bedroom apartment in the city with her husband and son, who had just celebrated his third birthday:
When Bossy found out you were speaking at a large rally in front of Bossy’s favorite cheese steak place, Bossy threw her son on her hip and headed out the door.
But alas you were running late that day, as became your habit—and Bossy’s son grew heavy on her hip in the large unforgiving crowd. And although Bossy’s son was excited to meet his new stepfather, he was getting shpilkes.
And so Bossy decided to abandon the awesome spot she had carved for herself in the crowd because that’s the sort of sacrifice you make as a mother. So off Bossy traipsed in search of someone who would purchase her child for a low price, when all of the sudden she saw an approaching motorcade.
The intersection was abandoned, as the crowd was waiting for you over a block away—so Bossy didn’t think for a second it would be you pulling up to the curb directly in front of her.
But there you were, unfolding your frame from the backseat of an unmarked car. You fixed your eyes on Bossy as if you had a prearranged date to meet and marry at that very location. “I’ll be right back,” you said, extending your index finger to indicate you would only be a minute.
Bossy had a heart attack and then she died and then she came back to life and there she was still standing at the curb with her three-year-old son in her arms. Bossy watched you disappear into a corner barbershop with a few of your aides.
Bossy’s son was somewhat less impressed, as you were not a soft pretzel salesman and Bossy’s son was in the mood for a soft pretzel like nobody’s business.
A few minutes passed while Bossy waited at the curb, still virtually alone, where virtually alone equals who knows if there were other people around because Bill! Clinton!
Suddenly you emerged from the barbershop and bee lined right for Bossy—which is odd because Bossy doesn’t even know what a bee line is.
You checked your stride, touching the corner of your nose as you stepped up onto the curb an inch from Bossy face. And then you leaned in and you. And you. And you. You pinched Bossy’s son’s cheeks, and looked him clear in the eyes and said, “Hey there.”
And then you turned on your heels and strode away toward the distant loudspeakers.
If only Bossy would have been wearing her black beret.