I am surely not the only one looking ahead and contemplating the finer points of another Clinton presidency. I am decidedly not talking economics, Greece, those dastardly Russians, and stuff like that, (can you say, "Boring?"), but rather I am thinking about something that may be on the minds of a few others as well. To wit, (clever huh?) just what can we expect when our former First Daughter, and Clinton spawn, Chelsea again ascends the White House steps in the wake of her mother's glorious victory?
As we all know - or at any rate those of us who "went to college and can, like, read" know - Chelsea Clinton once claimed she tried to see if she could "Care about money on a fundamental level" and discovered she...could not. Whether this voyage of discovery involved candles, incense, shamans or trips to India I have no idea. What I AM sure of is what every living breathing American woman does know; Chelsea's exploration could not possibly have involved shopping. If it had, she'd be kissin those greenbacks as passionately as a long-lost leprechaun, finally rescued from the Kennedy Compound and returned to Dublin, embraces the wee small leaves of grass in front of the old familiar pub.
What can we less-thans learn from Chelsea's, no doubt expensive, How-Do-I-Feel-About-Money Journey? Well I think it obvious that we can expect Chelsea to wear criminally-costly, yet understated, duds on the Today Show as she prattles on about the "one percent" vs the "rest of us". If challenged, she may confuse the 1 percent and 99 percent, but she'll get out of it by explaining "math was never my thing and that is why I could not care about money on a fundamental level". Applause!
Some of you ladies may recall that Chelsea has recently had a baby. (This event, thank God, was not videotaped. Nor, thank God again - you exist and this proves it! - was the conception. I do believe, and this is increasingly rare in America, a husband was involved.)
Sorry to kinda go off on a tangent thingy here, but I know about the husband cause, living outside the states, I read all about Chelsea's 5-million-dollar wedding in that terrific British journal "Hello". (Hello, "HELLO" - I love saying that. - You are so cool and have taught me so much about English Footballers! I love those cute little shorts they wear and the fact that they actually play with a real, big, round ball!) Okay, anyway, from journalistic coverage, we do know Chelsea actually married a man. His name is...whatever. Vera Wang donated the wedding gown and the Former and Future First Daughter (henceforth, FFFD) looked great.
But back to the first granddaughter, the poor dear. One, she will look like a mix of Hill, Bill, Chelsea and Whatshisname and, two, her identity, her very name, Charlotte, has been recently stolen, robbed, plagiarized by that tall blond future English king, William. (For Chelsea the Freudian bit here may well call for another philosophical, if not psychological, excursion.) Yes, the name was cribbed by the Prince and his more-comely-than-Chelsea wife for THEIR daughter. For those of you who failed to finish college (the loan problem, right?) I am talking about Prince William, his middle-class wife and that 10-week-old hussy they're parading around. (They too named their baby Charlotte! And Chelsea chose it first! It's. Just. Wrong!)
Can you say "Vast Right Wing ROYAL Conspiracy"? (If President Obama had not already returned the Churchill bust to London, I'd beseech -Hey, I can talk British- Future President Hillary to post it, well, post haste and not mark the box "Fragile". Copying Baby Char's name was a bridge way, way too far. And for those few American WWII vets still among us, (glad to see yah, boys) never forget that THAT disaster, where our guys fought their hearts out and struggled to take bridge after bridge after bridge from those nasty Huns (Millennials, those were the Nazis. No, not Republicans, real bona fide Nazis; they spoke German and everything) was brought to us by, yes, a Limey, Gen. Montgomery. (Although the film was made in Hollywood and even you gal fans gotta admit Robert Redford was never so unconvincing. Okay, except when he talks about Global Warming.)
But poor Chelsea, named as she was for a charming district of London, if her parents' reminiscences can be believed, (fine, scratch that) discovering that our "cousins across the pond" are not to be trusted. God, what a blow. Like Elvis hanging out with the boys from Liverpool and then hearing that that John guy was disappointed, or that sweet Joan Fontaine believing in, no LOVING, the wonderful Laurence Olivier in "Rebecca" only to discover his deceased mad wife is still taking up space in his mind, Chelsea has discovered that those people with their cute accents, freaky cars, Hugh Grant charm and weird teeth will do anything to make the cover of "HELLO". (Of course, this is what creeping socialism does, per force, eventually lead to. Those estates don't pay for themselves.)
And those "Oh, yes, how did you know I'm British?" people won't really friggin apologize to Chelsea and Whatshisname, either. They'll say, "Oh, sorry love" in their creepy annoying way and Chelsea will be left having to appear gracious. And let's face it, Arkansas ain't really THE SOUTH, so this will be a tough "fake" for her. (Full disclosure: Part of my family is from the South-South, so we can do that, "Honey, so good to see ya'll" stuff all day long, then slit your throat as you're sleeping in the guest room and later incorporate the whole thing into an entertaining summer-supper tale. No prob.)
But back to our, natch, "burning" question. Aside from the appearances on the morning talk shows, where every, and I mean EVERY, woman who tunes in will only be doing so to see what Chelsea's wearing and to feel better about their own looks, what can we expect from our girl, the first First Granddaughter, and Whatshisname?
I'm guessing...REALITY SHOW! And, as a gift to the family, I've got the hook. They'll take a year in London so that Whatshisname can, like all those rich American kids that never really have to work do, spend a a couple of terms, quite fittingly, at The London School of Economics, and Chelsea can look for a proper British nanny.
They'll move into a wonderful Georgian home. ("No luv, the name is from a king - the Third? The Fourth? - not to worry, but sorry to say it has nothing to do with 'that Beatles guy' as you put it," the producer will explain. )
All is fine until, yep, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, AKA Prince William and Kate, move into the adjoining abode. Baby Prince George cries non-stop and the royals pinch Chelsea's new nanny. Then our red-headed heart throb, Prince Harry, comes for a holiday and is found partying naked with...
Look, I'm not gonna do all the work here.