Hilliry Clinton looks old. Just on the borderline. A puncinello sort of face. You know, a clown’s face.

But all the polls show she is running ahead of the pack. It’s had not to run with all that support. Support, even though you don’t need it to walk. Imagine having all of that support. Imagine weaning a political button: “Shut up, I’m Hillary.”

So, Hillary cashes in all her chits, there by extending the inevitable four more years. Nobody is suicidal enough to believe in the Little People for eight more years.

Babs will sing, Neil Diamond will sing, the Stones will sing, about a rolling stone, while Hillary gets cool speaking fees greater than Ashton Kutcher gets for Two and a Half Men.
You know, that were poor, those Clintons, at their low mark, hardly had spit to tide them over.

It’ll be a route, in the end. Boomers will crush all before them. Lets put these Millelennials or Metrosexuals, whatever the are—yippe hippies they are not—to flight. As long as one of those magic names does not wind up head down in the punch bowl. You know what I’m talking about. Running tremendous at seventy and, yeow-meow, the music stopped.

This goes double for bill, with his quadruple bypass surgery—and we still don’t know his medical records. You get minus two for the price of one. You know, Hillary will be on the phone 20 times with bill daily to get things right.

And one thing I know is, you can’t be wrapped around the head with a punch bowel moving forward. Some things are just too silly, even for the Clintons.

Hudson Owen. All rights reserved