Bill Clinton No Longer Fuckable, Proclaims ELLE Writer Who Totally Wants To Do Him

Illustration for article titled Bill Clinton No Longer Fuckable, Proclaims ELLE Writer Who Totally Wants To Do Him

Elle sent writer Rebecca Traister to Africa with Bill Clinton for its December issue, an assignment about which she tells the contributors' page: "I was beside myself during the trip." And if by "beside" she means "touching" — or if by "trip" she means, ahem, "trip", or some combination of the two, that would be an accurate reflection of Oh My God The Most Insane Political Profile Ever on Bill Clinton, specifically the matter of what she terms that "feral appeal" — does he still got it? Rebecca maintains "no"! "The va-va-voom of Clinton's touch has dissipated in the years since I first met him," she says. "He appears older than his years. And he knows it." But then! She proceeds to fill the story with lines like:"He seemed to pulse with pheremones, and a moment's eye contact had been a sexually discombobulating experience" So it's like, in this case, no means yes! It's so confusing, like she's telling us all he's too old and gray for her to fantasize about, but you can't even hear her over the racket of her buzzing Magic Wand! More excerpts:

Illustration for article titled Bill Clinton No Longer Fuckable, Proclaims ELLE Writer Who Totally Wants To Do Him

In the lobby of the Robert Reid hospital, the press gets caught in a throng, and I try to push my way through the tangle of arms and legs, I feel a massive paw on my left shoulder blade, guiding me through the door. Though I can't see who's behind me, I know before I even hear the familiar cotton-wool drawl tell the crowd to "Let them through" that the paw is the same one I shook six years earlier, half of the pair that clasped palms and forearms and elbows all the way to the White House...I know it's Clinton's—not because it sends a dangerous jolt down my spine, but becaus the instant I feel that huge hand on my back, I know I am safe.


Safe, eh?

Only a man so sure of his masculinity and power could be comfortable enough to give his wife a turn at the most public kind of supremacy.


At every hotel and every restaurant and on every tarmac, he pauses to press the flesh, and there's always so much to press.

Tell Dov Charney about it!

His intellectual and humanistic appetites remain voracious, and when his gaze sweeps the dinner tabl and catches you, you feel as if you have been X-rayed by the eye of Sauron, the flabbiness of your own cerebrum exposed.


Whoah. Anyway, it continues on thusly, only with a subplot about how she has to pee, and she can't, but she needs to, but she's transfixed by his really important ideas about microfinancing and the minor infrastructure improvements that can generate large improvements in living standards in the world's poorest countries or something that is actually too mindboggling to convey plus she reallly has to go to the bathroom, but first she just completely loses it.

It's easy to forget after the past seven years that limber intellects are desirable in the leaders of your country.


Um, it's easy to forget if you are on rave drugs maybe! Oh right.



1) Reality check, ladies: Bill may be brilliant and confident and, therefore, charismatic. But he is NOT handsome. And his womanizing, and that flabby, pasty chest you see in the pic above, and his bulbous Rudolph nose all place him in the unfuckable category.

2) This writer needs to spend some quality time with her vibrator and work out her issues in private. I *so* did not need to read about her taking the measure of Bubba's pheromone levels or speculate on his pulsations when she was supposed to tell me how he plans how alleviate global poverty and the AIDS crisis. And where was her editor when this boatload of crazy sailed for the printer? Didn't any of her superiors say, "Uh, Rebecca, our company health plan includes psychiatric coverage."