What’s the Big, Like, Deal?

I am not at liberty to reveal how I obtained this document, excerpts of which are reprinted below. It may be of interest to independent counsel Kenneth Starr, and if he cares to subpoena me I would be happy to turn it over to him, provided of course that I’m granted full and complete immunity and that the FBI agents he sends to pick up the evidence are as handsome as the ones he sent to get the Linda Tripp tapes from literary agent Lucianne Goldberg.

Dear Diary: Off to Washington tomorrow to live the glamorous life getting coffee and stuff for our nation’s leaders. That’ll show those dumb Beverly Hills brats who called me Fatty in high school. Ha ha on them. Finally getting out from under Mommy and Daddy’s thumb--or should that be thumbs? Maybe I’ll get to meet Al Gore--whatta babe! Must remember to pack navy blue dress--very slimming.

Dear Diary: This intern gig really bites. They expect you to stay cooped up in a moldy old office building sorting mail and making copies for like hours on end. And they don’t even pay you. I could’ve gotten a better summer job at Kinko’s. At least their air conditioning works. So depressed I ate two whole bags of Chee-tos. I just know Daddy did this to me on purpose.

Dear Diary: The kids here aren’t any different than back home. They started calling me Elvira ‘cause my hair is so bushed out. I can’t help it, it’s the humidity. Everybody here is all like Jackie-O’d with the sheath dresses and pearls. Totally Ann Taylor. They’ve never even heard of Victoria’s Secret. This old witch Evelyn Lieberman actually sent me home for showing a little cleavage. What’s her problem? One good thing--finally got my hands on a blue pass. Now I can go anywhere I want. I just have to remember to carry a Manila envelope like I’m delivering something. Wonder where Al Gore’s office is?

Dear Diary: I did it! I met the Big One. No, not Al Gore (still working on that one). I mean the prez himself. Who knew he was such a hottie? He looks way better than he does on TV. Though he does have kind of a tummy. We talked about how hard it is to keep from going back for seconds at the buffet, and I think we really bonded. He told me he likes “a woman with a little meat on her.” I guess so! I mean have you seen Hillary’s thighs? It’s lipo-time!

Dear Diary: Three little words: Bill, Bill, Bill!

Dear Diary: Bill gave me the sweetest gift today, this poetry book by some old hippie with long hair and a beard. I think maybe this Walt Whitman guy might be somebody he met at Oxford, back when he didn’t inhale, ‘cause the book is called “Leaves of Grass.” Get it? I don’t totally understand all of the poems but there are one or two that are definitely X-rated. Evidently this Walt dude was a real horndog.

Dear Diary: Today I wore the navy blue dress. I’ll never wash it again!

Dear Diary: I’ve been neglecting you but who has the time? Bill has me totally tied up--literally! (That’s a joke.) This whole Mideast crisis is making him real edgy and he needs me to help him relax more than ever. They expect him to solve it! Like, he’s just the president, OK? He’s not God or anything.

Dear Diary: I’m going out of my skull with boredom. Gained two pounds. Bill is on vacation in the Vineyard with old Thunderthighs. Hope he brings me some cool gifts.

Dear Diary: He gave me this peasant dress, kind of hippie-style. If you ask me he’s stuck in the ‘60s. I gave him a frog figurine and a tie. Hope he wears it on TV, the tie I mean. Maybe he likes frogs ‘cause of the way his voice gets all hoarse and his eyes bulge out when he gets excited. I call him Froggie sometimes just in fun. He calls me Deep Throat--it’s not what you think. It’s some kind of joke off of like some old ancient history type thing that happened in the White House way back when. Froggie’s pretty good looking for an old guy. Not as cute as Al Gore, though.

Dear Diary: This witch Evelyn Lieberman has been sniffing around again. Good thing she doesn’t have X-ray vision to see what’s going on in the Oval Office. Like presidents just want to have fun, OK?

Dear Diary: Bummer! I’m being transferred to the boring old Pentagon. B.C. (Big Creep or Bill Clinton, get it?) says it’s safer and he’ll get me back to the White House later. Meanwhile we can talk on the phone. Ate a bag of Mint Milanos.

Dear Diary: Gained a pound. The Pentagon job bites. Just a bunch of typing boring old memos about national security and other dumb stuff. And they’re always on my case about making too many personal phone calls, like they need the phone in case there’s a war or something. I sneak out to Starbucks for a double latte whenever I get the chance and hang out with this other aide, Linda Tripp, who thinks the job sucks too. She’s kind of old and has a bad bleach job but who else am I gonna talk to? And she’s a shopaholic just like me. She always says, “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.” Cute, huh?

Dear Diary: Schmucko called. I told him he had to get me outta the dumb old Pentagon, I’m freaking out here, so what if they throw in a few trips to Europe, I’d rather go to the mall. He said I should talk to Vernon Jordan.

Dear Diary: Vernon Jordan rocks! He says he can get me a cool job in NYC! Mom’s there but she promises not to bug me. After all, I’m 24 now. Vern says he just has to say the word and I’ll be working for Revlon and not behind the counter in some department store either. Wow, free eyeliner for life!

Dear Diary: Major bummer! This Kenneth Starr geek is gonna ask me to testify in front of the grand jury. I hope this doesn’t screw up the Revlon job! Must ask Linda what to do.

Dear Diary: I still don’t know what I’m gonna do but it helps to talk it out with Linda. What a true friend. She’s willing to listen for hours. Must get her something, maybe one of those cute little guardian angel pins. And a make-over.

Dear Diary: Wonder what would’ve happened if I’d gotten to meet Al Gore first.