Under the Black Flag

Common Slobbery

The only time I saw Bill Clinton in the flesh was four years ago in the London Ritz.  I was having lunch with Leopold and Debbie Bismarck and the mother of my children, as I call Princess Alexandra Schoenburg-Hartenstein, my wife.  There were Krauts galore plus some English friends, and we were celebrating Alexandra’s birthday, which falls on September 26.  Men were in dinner jackets, ladies in long dresses.  Then in came Clinton, wearing a sleeveless sort of jumper over a T-shirt, with two black guys in jeans and outrageously gaudy windbreakers.  The only ones properly dressed were the myriad of Secret Service personnel, all paid by yours truly, the American taxpayer.

Once they ensconced themselves at a table, I asked to speak to the maître d’, whom I know well, and demanded he throw the bums out.  He refused because of Clinton’s position as ex-president.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt as helpless as I did that day, especially after my wife told me that she would leave if I insulted Clinton, which I was ready to do.  Manners, like courage on the battlefield, are not something Clinton is familiar with, and forelock-tugging maître d’s are not making it any easier for those of us who still believe in old-fashioned values.

Let’s face it.  Coarseness, violence, dishonesty, and lawlessness threaten to spread into every corner of life. ...

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