Failed first gentleman Bill ‘L’il Abner’ Clinton is reportedly all fucking weepy and needy and outraged that Senator Unicorn hasn’t called to apologize for calling out the Clinton campaign for the Atwater-esque White Power theatrics L’il Abner and Ma Clinton hurled at the Senator from Illinois during the primaries campaign.

One piece today in the UK Telegraph relates that L’il Abner is so “bitter” about Hilbot 9000’s loss that he is stomping around huffing and puffing that Obama is going to have to “kiss my ass” for his official seal of approval, naturally the most important thing in the world because everyone knows that every race involving a Democrat is just a referendum on whether or not one of the Clintons gives a fuck who you are and shows up at your fucking bean supper.

At first we thought, oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Bill feels he is just so tight with the Brothers and Sisters, it just bwoke his widdoo heart that a melanin-enhanced Senator Unicorn would point out the fact that the Hilbot 9000 Campaign and its proxies (including L’il Abnder) were making all kinds of noises pigeonholing Senator Unicorn variously as: a trivial black protest candidate; a young huckster trying to cash in on the young gifted and black thing; and a reputed though as yet unconfirmed Muslim fanatic ready to convert America to Islam at gunpoint the second he is inaugurated. Finally, Hilbot 9000 just came out and started ranting, fuck, I am the White Power candidate and you must vote for me because, of course, White America is so foamingly racist they will lynch Senator Unicorn at the polls.

Can they really be waiting for an apology from Senator Unicorn?

Cynics’ Party Remote Viewing Brigade Brings Home the Low-Down on L’il Abner’s Wrath

Well, the newspapers have been wrong and used for diabolical ends before and L’il Abner seems a darned sight more reasonable than all that. So the Cynics’ Party, in pursuit of the whole truth, assembled an official Cynics’ Party remote viewing session in the attic of a tavern in East Baltimore.

There, shitfaced and delirious from the swampy heat of the night, our masters of astral projection viewed the Clintons at home in their Westchester, NY compound where, using nothing but our psychic powers, CP’s legendary Remote Viewing Brigade (RVB) learned the real truth behind L’il Abner’s recalcitrance in supporting Senator Unicorn’s campaign.

The following is a composite of their findings during an extended, 17-hour remote sensing session led by FlyingChainSaw with CP stalwarts who have asked to remain nameless servants to history.

L’il Abner is naked except for grimy boxer shorts, flopped down on the sofa in the living room, asleep, with a cigar burning in his mouth and newspapers scattered all over his gut and legs. Hilbot 9000 enters and grimaces. “Abner! Wake the fuck up! What are you doing about my legacy!?” she shouts.

L’il Abner rouses and squints at Hilbot 9000 and says, “Aaaaw, Maaaaaw. The feller f’m Chicago with that nice wife done wupped ya. Maybe we can ‘vite them ov’r fa vittles. At least the wife.” Hilbot 9000 backhands the burning cigar from L’il Abner’s mouth, sending it flying across the living room. “The fuck we will, shithead. Chiquita! Get the fuck in here and pick up that cigar before Abner burns the place down.”

The housemaid enters, quivering, and says, “Madam Clinton. . .” before Hilbot shouts, “That’s Madam Fucking President! How many times do I have to tell you, Chiquita!?”

“My name is Magdalena, Madam Fucking President,” says the housemaid. Hilbot 9000 trembles in quaking rage. “Just pick up the fucking cigar before it the place burns down,” Hilbot 9000 barks. Hilbot 9000 slaps L’il Abner across the face with naked fury, forcing him to sit up.

“OK, Abner, listen the fuck up. We’ve got a situation here and we make the best of it, I could save my legacy. Otherwise, I am a fucking footnote and I ain’t gonna be no fucking footnote.” L’il Abner smacks his lips, obviously bleary from sleep and concussion.

Hilbot 9000 reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a camisole. She shakes it under L’il Abner’s nose, grinning in diabolical self-satisfaction. “Aaaaaaw, Maaaaw, that smells like Michelle Obama. Soooo gooooooood. Can I have it, Maw? Please, Maw? Please! Where’d you get it?”

Hilbot 9000 grins broadly at L’il Abner and says, “Opposition researchers I have on hire that steal Senator Fuckface’s fucking garbage every week managed to make off with the laundry Michelle put out for the service. You help me out, maybe I let you have another whiff.” Hilbot 9000 shakes the camisole under L’il Abner’s nose and tucks it quickly away into her jacket.

“Had their clothes examined for DNA of lovers I could use to make them malleable. Nothing. Sex life like the Cleavers,” she says in disgust.

“Wadja want, Maw?” L’il Abner says.

The Camisole, the Hayseed and the Plot to Retake the White House From Inside

Hilbot 9000 leans forward and grabs L’il Abner’s chin and says, “Listen. You are gonna make a big deal out of endorsing him. You’re going to get mad as hell that he played the race card on you, yes, you and Me. Yeah, mad as hell he called us racists - and you’re so fucking ripshit you’re going to withhold your vital endorsement and make noises that you think he is doomed in the general election - louder and louder noises. In the backchannel we just outright threaten to fucking campaign for fucking McCain. Fuck the party. Fuck him. Fuck America. We throw everything at him to jam his fucking campaign. . . Until he breaks and strikes a deal with Me. Fucking Me.”

L’il Abner chuckles and says, “I love ya’, Maw. What’s our terms?”

“Vice presidency at the least for me and Secretary of State, maybe Secretary of Defense for you,” she says, nodding knowingly, “and maybe two or three other key appointments for people from our old crowd. Once we’ve got our places set, we can figure out what to do with the fucking guy when we got our feet on the ground. Gimme 6 months, we’ll have the place back under our control. Fuck, though, I never thought I’d be fighting a retreating strategy. Fuck Me.”

L’il Abner perks up after finding a half-empty can of Pringles behind one of the cushions on the sofa and starts munching them. “What happened to the ‘Something happens to Obama strategy,’ Maw?” he asks. Hilbot 9000 shakes her head and says, “No. By now, everyone would know it was me, no matter what alibi I concoct. I mean, I’ve gotten over 14,000 resumes of assassins or assassination teams who wanted the job. Christ, everyone and their pets at Dealy Plaza must have been shooting at JFK.”

L’il Abner Makes a Pouty Face Seen Around the World

Hilbot 9000 waves the camisole at L’il Abner, momentarily before tucking it quickly away. “OK, let’s get to work. Let’s try your best pouty face. Think a big yucky thought, like this: all the interns said no blow-jobs for Abner. No, no, no, no, no. Nooooo BJs. That’s right. Just terrible.”

L’il Abner’s eyes well up and the corners of his mouth turn down pushing his lower lip out, the picture of entitlement denied. Hilbot’s eyes light up and she says, “Oh, fuck, that is inspired, Abner. Fucking brilliant. OK, can you hold that face and say, ‘I’m not a racist! That guy race-carded me! Me, the first black president of the USA!’ ”

L’il Abner pauses, exhales loudly through his nose, his lower lip and chin trembling, and whimpers through his pathetic pout, “Fucking Obama, he should know I can’t be a racist! I am not a racist! The guy race-carded me! Me! Me, the first real black president of the US of A!. He’s gonna hafta apologize and kiss my ass before I’ll help his campaign. Fuck him!”

Suddenly, L’il Abner and Hilbot 9000 burst into red-faced, gasping laughter, holding each other to keep from falling off of the sofa. Hilbot 9000 regains her composure first and reaches for the telephone. “Hey, lemme call our people in the UK to drop this story into the Brit papers. They love stories about royalty whining and shit,” she said.

L’il Abner smiles. “Can I hold the camisole now, Maw?”

Hilbot 9000 waves her eyebrows at him. “Let’s see if the show goes as well as the dress rehearsal and we’ll see, my pretty. We’ll see,” she says lifting the receiver.