They had a term for her, but I’ve forgotten it.
It was a name applied to a person who could not say no to a door-to-door salesman. The one I remember from my brief career selling magazines was totally upfront about her intentions. “I’ll buy whatever you’re selling,” she said. I sold her Esquire and two other subscriptions. Salesmen back then had a name for such people.
Today, I would call them conservatives. They, too, will buy anything.
The current evidence for this is Edward Klein’s latest book, “Blood Feud: The Clintons vs. the Obamas.” It has just jumped over Hillary Clinton’s own book, “Hard Choices,” on the New York Times best-seller list and zoomed past it on Amazon.
The problem with Clinton’s book is that it doggedly presents her as she really is. The virtue of Klein’s book is that it presents a Hillary Clinton who is a right-winger’s harridan, obscene, dishonest and likely to say the most astonishing things. You did not know, probably, how foul-mouthed and indiscreet she is.
Not too many pages into the book, Hillary purportedly tells a reunion of college friends what she really thinks of Barack Obama.
The time is May 2013, the location is a Westchester County restaurant called Le Jardin du Roi, and the wines are Chateau Hyot Castillon Cotes de Bordeaux and Croix de Basson, cheap stuff. Obama, Clinton tells about half a dozen women, “has turned into a joke.” “Incompetent and feckless,” she adds.
And then, with the wine possibly loosening her tongue, she does a spot-on imitation of my basic training drill sergeant. There’s “no hand on the (censored) tiller.” “And you can’t trust the (censored)” because “his word isn’t worth (censored).” As for her husband, she told her friends, should she become president and he get to thinking she’s really just the first lady, “I’ll have his ass thrown out of the White House.”
These passages do not pass the smell test. They trigger deep cynicism and read like raw, untreated gossip. Matters are not improved by the interjection of the supposedly compelling detail, such as the labels of the wines or, later on, the sofa in the Clintons’ Washington living room. It’s “caramel Rose Tarlow velvet,” should you wonder.
With the exception of the occasional anodyne anecdote, none of the gamey stuff is sourced.