CaterGate

 

The Best Canapes Tax Dollars Can Buy

 

Bill, Hillary and Chelsea Clinton owned a small event planning and catering business in Washington, DC. They were very proud of it. Its canapes were the talk of the town.

Once sworn in, President Bill hosted a small reception every weekend at the White House for a couple hundred friends, political allies, and moochers. Foreign embassies, when throwing their own receptions, made a point of using the President’s event planning and catering service.

When foreign leaders talked to the President, they were all sure to mention that their embassies used his caterer. Soon enough, the President’s catering service was booked non-stop in the capital, running events seven days a week at every executive department. One notable dinner party for three hundred at the National Park Service boasted wild boar flatbreads. A retirement party at NASA featured moon pies. (Caterers have no trouble with irony at a hundred dollars a plate).

The Sultan of Brunei, seeking a favorable arms deal, approved a franchise request for the President’s event planning and catering business in his country, and celebrated the grand opening with a hundred thousand-dollar bacchanalia. China quickly followed suit, then Japan.

By the end of President Bill’s first two years in office, his little catering company had increased profits by a hundred million dollars, a third of which went straight into his pocket. He was no Jimmy Carter, who gave up his peanut farm to become the leader of the free world. President Bill was going to keep his stuff.

The House Judiciary Committee subpoenaed records from the Treasury Department, listing every payment made to President Bill’s catering company by the taxpayers. The numbers were added up and displayed on a chart that even a fifth-grader could understand. For those members of Congress who had trouble grasping the concept, fifth-graders from local schools were brought in to explain it to them.

In the course of the investigation, a witness came forward to tell the committees that President Bill had received consensual fellatio under the Resolute desk in the Oval Office (which had, ironically, been gifted to the United States by England’s greatest prude). A stained blue dress was brought into the hearing room, sealed in plastic. No one wanted to touch it except the news media, because sex sells. White House blowjobs were in every news cycle for weeks.

In his Impeachment War Room, President Bill stormed around, railing about politically-motivated witch hunts, shouting that he couldn’t believe he was being impeached for a blowjob. An aide, munching a taxpayer-funded deviled egg that put two dollars in the President’s pocket, reminded him that he was actually being thrown out of office for using it to make money for himself and his family. (The aide was fired for talking with his mouth full).

It took one chart, and one day, for the House to vote to impeach. The Senate put the President on trial. Like Al Capone, it was impossible to convict him for whores and booze; all they had to do was follow the money. The vote to remove him from office was 98-2. (The only nay votes were from two Senators who wanted Cabinet appointments).

Impeachment, as it turned out, was a simple math problem.

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