The Clinton Restoration
We'll win again anyway.


You’re probably wondering how I’ve been spending my time since the glorious victory of November 4. Truly, that was a night to remember, a well-deserved electoral thrashing of you wingnuts that couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch of fascists. When Ohio went blue, and we knew it was over, my neighborhood here in Echo Park went bananas: spontaneously, we formed a conga line and, holding lighted candles and icy cervezas, snaked our way over to Sunset Boulevard near Dodger Stadium, where we worshipped the giant mural of The One — the one that says, simply, “Hope” — into the wee hours.

We finally beat &^$#@*BUSH*&^$@!

Later that night, I staggered back to my palatial bachelor pad near Elysian Park and was about to let myself in when I heard a familiar sound coming from my undocumented neighbor’s back yard, and so loftily inspired was I by Barack Hussein Obama II’s triumph that I hopped over the fence, and . . . . Well, let’s just say it’s O.K. to slaughter a celebratory goat in Kenya, but not necessarily in Los Angeles.

So now that I’m out of jail and back on the streets, what do I find? Not Hope. Not Change. I find the Clinton Restoration. What am I, Dave van Winkle?

Eric “Marc Rich Pardon” Holder as AG? Robert Rubin’s boy, Tim Geithner, at Treasury? Rahm “Entourage” Emanuel as chief of staff? Bill Richardson at Commerce? And, worst of all, Herself as secretary of State? The Rodham we fought so hard to beat? The imperiled heroine of Rush’s Operation Chaos? The woman whose pantsuits give the phrase “Foggy Bottom” a whole new meaning? Groundhog Day was less predictable than American politics these days.

Now I’m sitting here, with my head in my hands and my bail bondsman on the other line, two whole months before the inauguration and already wondering What Went Wrong, while you wingnuts finally figure out that, for the next four years at least, you don’t have to do a damn thing except stand athwart history, yelling, “stop!”

To say I’m disappointed at the kind of Change we got would be an understatement. I wasn’t nostalgic for the Ford administration when Bush 43 got selected — Cheney? Rumsfeld? — but I’m darn sure not pining for Clinton 42. I thought that was what the great battle against the Beast was all about — no more dynasties, no more Ivy-League affirmative action programs for people smart enough to get into the decaying husk of old Protestant America (thanks, Joe Kennedy!), but not smart enough to function in the real world. By which I mean the world located roughly between the Wall Street casino operators and the Hollywood snake-oil salesmen. You know, the world in which David Shuster doesn’t get to be outraged at the sight of a turkey being pre-interviewed for his Thanksgiving table.

So, as I pour myself another stiff Evian on the rocks and look over the stack of parking tickets I got during my stint downtown, I’m slowly beginning to realize that you lunatics may just have finally found the outcome you’ve been looking for. Who knew — besides the five million Republican voters who were washing their hair on Election Night — that John McCain was merely a stalking horse for Barry Soetero, the basketball player not good enough to be a star at Punahou? That the Maverick couldn’t wait to throw the election so he could regain his core constituency of the media, and once again cross the aisle to his heart’s content, secure in the knowledge that Ted Kennedy and Russ Feingold and even what’s his name, that short-timer who spent barely half a year in the august Senate before cashing in a paycheck he did nothing to earn while running for POTUS, would be his pals once more. After all, he has seven houses, a hot second wife, and the thanks of 53 percent of a grateful nation. Meanwhile, you’re out of a job.

As a result, I’m beginning to understand why our side is so afraid of a certain smokin’ hot (in a kind of Peckinpah, Killer Elite kind of way, not that I personally find her attractive) governor of Alaska. I mean, we’ve barely begun the beatification process on Barry and here we are, looking over our shoulder nervously at this Tina Fey doppelgänger and desperately trying to figure out what you clowns see in her. That’s why we’re sending in our MSNBC clones like Shuster and Alex Witt (former lead singer of the girl group, “Mrs. Robinson”) to destroy her before she can gain any more traction with “real Americans.” The last thing we need is the Moose Huntress, eyeing Barry for the next four years like he was a Thanksgiving turkey ripe for stuffing.

Because this one thing we know: We won this time by pulling the wool over the collected electorate of Pennsylvania (ridiculously easy), Ohio (somewhat harder), Virginia (harder still, but luckily the federal government suburbs now outweigh the Old Dominion) and Florida (proven stupid since 2000). We won this time by running against yet another tongue-tied “war hero” from a war nobody can remember, a Stockholm-Syndrome candidate who just wanted to be loved, even if he didn’t get elected. Bush, Dole, Bush, McCain — don’t you guys have anybody who can think on his feet?

Well, yeah, you do . . . except that he’s a she. Cool, unflappable, and the only thing that stood between Hussein Jr., and a 48-state landslide. The fact that we’re still obsessing about her ought to tell you something: Sarah Palin scares the bejesus out of us. Thank Gaia we have plenty of time to carve her up.

Because after four years of Sidwell Friends, Greg Craig, Sally Quinn, Hill ‘n’ Bill, and a poetaster in the White House whose only apparent passion is for cigarettes and hoops, the country may figure out it’s been had, that the only change it got was the color of the chief executive’s skin, but otherwise it’s the same old racket with the same old players. Hey — let’s all party like it’s September 10!

If you morons would only clean the rest of your house and sweep aside all the well-meaning but clueless white guys who have gotten you into this mess, you might even have a chance in 2112.

But, of course, you won’t. You’ll nominate Jeb Bush.

David Kahane is the nom de cyber of a writer in Hollywood.