I am amazed at the article Hewitt has at Townhall right now. It isn’t even so much the fine investigative acumen it must have taken to conduct such a piercing, penetrative interview with a radical as dangerous as Hillary Clinton — it’s the impressive journalistic courage it displays that he was even willing to arrange such a thing.
Above: “And we haven’t even said we love you, Yeti.” *
Through my sources, I have managed to get access to Hewitt’s reporter’s notebook. While he is too modest himself to ever draw attention to the selfless feats of bravery he displayed in arranging his Clinton interview, I thought it only fair that you should know how hard he worked to get a chance to speak with America’s most wanted revolutionary.
August 28, 2007. Inside my forty-fifth Starbucks.
I have made contact with some of La Clintonista’s supporters at last. Even this first step has been hellish – I think I’ve been to every single Starbucks in Manhattan. None of these people speak English; the only way I’ve been able to win their trust is by imbibing the local drink – something called in their language a “half-caf triple shot foam only”. I don’t know what it is, but it tastes foul, and ever since I started drinking them (two days ago) I haven’t been able to sleep.
Navigating this concrete jungle for the last two days just serves to remind me how far from civilization I am. Everyone here walks, and when I ask the natives why they don’t just drive cars, they stare at me in blank incomprehension before laughing. I miss the comforts of home, where I am never more than ten minutes from a Walmart or a McDonald’s with a drive-thru.
But I don’t have time to think about now. I must focus on my goal, difficult as that might be with the godawful native music they seem to always be playing in these Starbucks – this time it seems to be something the locals call “Joni Mitchell”. I truly am in another world, aren’t I?
I guess word has gotten out that a stranger is in town, looking to speak with the elusive jungle rebel known as La Clintonista, because two of her followers have just approached me. They are not young, which is a surprise to me, but their dress immediately gives away their loyalties. The expensive tailored suits, the drab colors (perfect camouflage?), the leather attache cases – all the hallmarks of a true Clintonista.
They eyed me suspiciously. “Are you the one running around town making an ass of yourself trying to get in touch with Hillary?” they ask.
Their hostility does not surprise me; La Clintonista has only been able to survive as long as she has by surrounding herself with fierce and capable aides de camp.
“Yes,” I tell them. “I know La Clintonista has struggled to get her side of the story told, and I want to help her change that. I know she is passionate about her beliefs; for her to have given up her life as a simple governor’s wife in Arkansas in order to be reduced to being a mere U.S. Senator is not a sacrifice many people would be willing to make. Whether or not I agree with her, I take her commitment to her cause seriously, and I want her story to be told. Will you help me?”
I waited breathlessly. An inexplicable look passed between the two Clintonistas. Would they attack me? Would my life end here and now, in this wretched backwater Starbucks, alone and unmourned?
One of the Clintonistas reached into her attache case. My life flashed before my eyes. She pulled out a business card, and I released a breath I didn’t even know I had been holding. “Look, if all you want is to know her position on things, you could go to her website – it’s not really a secret. But here’s her press secretary’s phone number. Just call like normal people do, and stop running around the city accosting people in Starbucks and asking them if they know where ‘LaClintonista’s Jungle Headquarters’ is, okay? You’re freaking people out.”
Success! But at such a cost. Between all the native drinks and the terror of confronting an actual Clintonista, I don’t think I’ll be able to wear these chinos again.
I stand in awe of what this man has done. But this is only the beginning – the true drama begins when he actually sits face-to-face with That Woman, herself.
Sunday, September 30. In the Clintonista camp.
I have learned from my time here. Before entering the camp, I picked up the last bit of truly essential gear I will need to ensure the success of this interview at a native store called “Duane Reade”. I am ready. I am prepared. I have waited my whole life for this moment.
I am terrified.
When I am finally brought into the presence of La Clintonista, I am at first speechless. She is wearing a pantsuit! This is a woman who is not afraid to let people know exactly how far to the left she really is. I think I finally see why people flock to her; LaClintonista is less a woman than a leader. But in what fearsome direction she leads!
She wastes no time on pleasantries. “What did you want to talk about today? I have about ten minutes before I have to leave for New York; we’re going to be discussing a resolution to recognize the 75th anniversary of the Order of the Purple Heart, and I don’t want to miss that”.
I was honored that she already had enough trust in me to be so open about her hidden agenda. “Honoring the Purple Heart” was obviously code for something; I would have to investigate that later. For now, I stuck to my questions.
“Is it true, La Clintonista, that you support James Webb’s language about requiring Congressional approval before any use of force against Iran?” I believe that you always hit them with your hardest question first.
She gave me an odd look; one that sent a shiver down my spine. “It’s just Mrs. Clinton, really. Or Hillary, if you like. But yes, Mr. Hewitt, I think the Constitution is pretty specific on this point. Congressional approval, or no force.”
I was in shock. This woman intended to follow the dictates of the Constitution! Truly, her reputation as a far-left radical was well-deserved.
“And health care, La Clin – Mrs. Clinton?”
“Well, basically I’m talking about opening Medicare, paid for by the individual, to everyone, so if you don’t have health insurance through your job, you can opt to buy a Medicare-like plan at an affordable price.”
So. “Buying healthcare”. I see it was to be Communism, then, I thought to myself. She truly wanted to remake America from the bottom up. Thinking on this made me glad I had stopped at a Duane Reade first today.
I hope everyone reading this realizes what a debt of gratitude we all owe Hugh Hewitt for his intrepid journalistic integrity. He has faced America’s most dangerous radical and lived to tell the tale. Without him, how would we know of the imminent threat facing American democracy at the hands of her most dangerous radical?
There are more stories still to be told from these humble journalist’s diaries, but I think I will save them for another time. Hewitt’s fame is well-enough established with these brief excerpts for today.
* Toby Keith – ‘Yet’ (Dream Walkin’, 1997)