Where will Bill Clinton be on Jan. 20, 2005?

 

Licking my balls.

Chasing tail, lying to someone or at McDonald's.

In jail, I hope! But with the way things go in this country, he'll be sworn in as president again, or as Hillary's vice-president.

With any luck he will be doing 20 to life in Leavenworth.

Watching television in the Clinton library while ex-wife Hillary takes the Oath of Office.

That depends on the willingness of Barbra Streisand to put up with a middle-aged black and white cat in her house.

Holding the Bible for Hillary. Or doing time at Lompoc with the Rev. Jackson. Or Living with Kim Basinger now that Alec Baldwin has left the country.

President of the World Bank.

If it's a just world, he'll be cleaning pools in Southern California for all the Hollywood types who dropped him like a bad habit on Jan. 21, 2001. In a perfect world, he'd be in Lompoc hammering out license plates. And so would his wife.

Hopefully in the fucking slammer.

He'll be in New York, lying face-down in his bed until noon. Then he'll be on the phones chatting to friends. Some won't return his calls. Then he'll write some phony executive orders. Then he'll look up pornographic websites. Then he'll swallow a bottle of Prozac. Later he'll be found walking the streets in his bathrobe and slippers, mumbling about the bridge to the 21st century.

In a state of oblivion.

In a Hot Springs, AK whorehouse with a straw up his nose, vacuuming up as much coke as possible.

In Washington, having a good laugh as he watches George W. Bush ejected from the White House. There is no self-pity like Bush self-pity.

On a steam grate at the corner of 44th St. and 9th Ave., clutching a half-finished bottle of Vitalis and panhandling for quarters. (It wouldn't be dignified for a former president to wash windshields.)

Hopefully in a European jail, arrested and convicted for war crimes.

Allenwood.

Co-hosting with Kathie Lee.

Dead, from an undisclosed STD.

Shoving his big, fat cock up MUGGER's tight asshole, of course. And MUGGER, wincing and grimacing as tears of sweet, sweet pain roll down his ruddy cheeks, will love it. The hate he exudes toward Clinton is so clearly that which can only come from the truly jealous that it indicates that he would like nothing better than to be Bubba's ass-monkey.

Hey, as predictions go, this can't be less accurate than any that MUGGER has ever made and continues to make, to the delight of those who love to watch him render himself an utter jackass over and over again.

I'm sorry to say it, but some time between now and January 2005, Bill Clinton will have been found dead in a Hollywood bedroom. Where will he be? I'll leave that to the theologians.

At Hillary's side as her vice-president when she wins the presidency in 2004.

Watching?on television, not in person?George W. Bush being sworn in for a second term.

Wearing gray, slightly worn Sansabelt pants, sensible shoes and a Men's Wearhouse imported three-button blue Italian blazer, he'll be addressing the third-grade class of Mohawk Trails School in Carmel, IN.

At the Playboy Mansion, hanging out with the degenerate Hugh Hefner.

May God forgive me for this, but please let him be dead. It's the most final thing I can think of.

On television, giving himself fellatio, on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, on television again, denying the event ever took place.

In Malibu, striking deals with flesh scouts for his studio partnership with pal Larry Flynt.

Dead by his own or Hillary's hand.

Would hell be too much to hope for?

Making a deposit in a sink.

President of a second- or third-tier university (Pepperdine? UCLA?), which allows him to have some sort of platform for pontificating when some liberal bugbear (Ashcroft, etc.) appears on the horizon, while staying within easy reach of the klieg lights (and starlets) of Hollywood.

In Havana, celebrating his divorce from Rosie O'Donnell.

Hopefully, in a common urn.

A eunuch in a very large harem.

Playing golf at Shadow Creek with Ron Burkle, Vernon Jordan and David Geffen (if he doesn't swing like a girl).

Doing infomercials.

A 72-pound Bill Clinton will be in seclusion, living in a guesthouse behind Steven Spielberg's riding stables, ravaged by a variety of sexually transmitted diseases and carefully watched over by his wife, Anne Heche.

The man will be General Secretary of the United Nations.

He'll be mayor of New York City.

He'll be the star of a tv series about the Presidency.

He will probably be on the unemployment line after George W. Bush destroys and blows up the economy and causes the stock market to crash with his outrageously dumb 1.6 trillion dollar tax cut.

Having some intern stick a cigar up his ass.