The Clintons and the Come-uppance At Hand

Reckoning comes late to the Clintons, but it comes. Bubba has skated past a lot of transgressions, always counting on his gift of gab and his deep-dyed Southern charm to escape retribution. He played the charm card with consummate skill: “Aw, shucks, what can you do with a good ol’ boy like me?”

For a long time, not very much. His touch with the ladies at Hot Springs High School, where he competed with the athletes (most of them not very good) when the boys in the band were always in the shade of the quarterbacks and running backs in a ferocious football culture, would only be perfected later.

But even in the White House, Bubba apparently thought seduction was for sissies. A man must have his rape, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, as a succession of women in his life could testify. But it’s difficult for any well brought-up woman to slap the face of the president of the United States, no matter how deserved, and few angry husbands would dare to seek revenge in the face of a president’s Secret Service bodyguards.

So Bubba got a pass. Until Donald Trump. The Donald’s rough reprise of the scandals that shocked everyone, or at least entertained them, two decades ago took both Bubba and his enabler back to the bad ol’ days. The adventures of Bubba among the bimbos, as his onetime aide for “bimbo eruptions” called it, might be old news for the old folks but it’s all new and lively stuff for the millennials and others of the younger persuasion. The modern culture, which could put two men atop the wedding cake, made changing sexes all the rage and decreed that anything goes, all the way and all the time, is just the place for the Clintons to practice their cheap arts.

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