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Marry Monica!
The honorable thing for Bill Clinton to do.


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Sure, you’re happy now–signing autographs, giving interviews, mugging for the cameras again. But when the book tour is over and it’s back to Chappaqua, with nary an intern in sight, you–Bill Clinton–will have to face it: Your legacy is still uncertain, and your obit is still going to have Monica in the lead.

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But there is a solution to your quagmire, a simple one that could bring happiness to one man and two women, spread joy throughout the nation and, most importantly, break up the summer news drought: Marry Monica, Mr. President, marry Monica! Now, before it’s too late!

You may not have considered this lately, but most certainly, Monica Lewinsky has. She has the peevish look of a woman who has been waiting by a silent phone for quite some time, and in interviews, she has dropped some not-so-subtle hints that she is still available. She’s 30 now, still single, and quite frankly, it’s all your fault. If Monica hadn’t spent so much time hailing the chief, she’d be a happy hausfrau in the suburbs of Westchester right now, a big-haired Mrs. Milton Schwartz. You owe her, big time, and a diamond is a good place to start.

What’s in it for you? Plenty. For starters, you two can pick up where you left off, canoodling at all hours with no pesky Ken Starr poking around. (In fact, image the fun prank calls you can make to his house late at night: “Hey, Ken, guess what we’re doing now!”)

But image is everything–so they say–and if you marry Monica, make things right, you will remake your image in ways that Dick Morris could only dream of. Here’s the bottom line: Your numbers will shoot through the roof.

See, the passing of Ronald Reagan reminded the nation of the storybook romance of Ronnie and Nancy, and frankly, now we’re hungry for more. Where are the great romances of America? Where’s the real-life Shrek and Fiona? We’ve only got Britney and J-Lo.

We, as a nation, need a love story, one that you and Monica could provide. Of course, you’ll want to do some polling first, but that’s just a formality. Monica will bump up your favorables in a way that Hillary never could. A couple of months of Atkins, and you two could own the world.

Matrimony may not only be a good solution, but the only one that will clean up your mess. As it stands, there is no Clinton obituary that proceeds without some variation of the phrase “whose presidency was marred by a dalliance with an intern.” But! Profess your love for Monica, wed her, and sally forth with a couple of cute kids, and even the Washington Times will order a rewrite. It’s a fresh start! A new day! We’re in the mood for luv!

There is, of course, the minor problem that you are, technically, already married. But we’re all rather tired of pretending that you and Hillary are man and wife in the biblical sense; we know you were much closer to Buddy.

Not only will Hillary give you a divorce; heck, she’ll probably give you away.

Of course, there is also the problem of Monica being, well, shall we say, a little annoyed with you post My Life. She’s told more than one reporter that you “destroyed” her life. And you, above all men, know a little something about Hell’s fury and women scorned.

“He could have made it right with the book,” she told a British newspaper. “But he hasn’t. He is a revisionist of history. He has lied.”

Okay, this may take a big diamond. But, as they say, the difficult we can do immediately; the impossible just takes a little longer. Here’s what to do: Blame editors. Works for me every time. That terrible line, “Because I could?” You were bleeped! It’s criminal what they do to your words!

What you really said: ” Because I could not resist her. Because she was everything to me…. Because she is the most beautiful woman in the world, the smartest, sexiest, kindest, most wonderful human being on the planet. And… (here, you paused and got teary) I have missed her terribly these past few years, and I hope she will forgive me, and consent to be my wife.”

She will, of course. Personally, I got teary-eyed just writing the words.

A few years from now, when Monica has given you a couple of man children–come on, you know you want ‘em–your place in history will be secure, and oh, the photo ops! You and Monica, emerging misty-eyed from the hospital, with your bundle of joy. You, misty-eyed, holding the Camcorder at the fifth-grade graduation. You, misty-eyed, dancing at your son’s bar mitzvah. (Well, there is that–faith of the mother, and all. But you’ve always been the multicultural sort, and you look so fetching in a yarmulke.)

Truly, yours will be the love story that can unite us all: Republicans and Democrats, Muslims and infidels, FNC and CNN. Long-time Clinton bashers who have railed against your moral failings will have to champion your responsibility and honor. For once, across the fruited plain, we’ll all be friends of Bill.

So, please, consider it, Mr. President. If not for Monica, for yourself. If only because you can.

Jennifer Nicholson Graham, an NRO contributor, is a writer in Virginia.



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