Hold on, Dear Glibs. Hold on tight. This is a rough one.

Rodham Is Pantsuit Nation Erotica

Hillary Clinton’s most ardent fans have probably dreamed of the scenarios laid out in Curtis Sittenfeld’s seventh novel, Rodham, which casts the former Secretary of State as the leading lady in a shoddy bonkbuster, and Bill, the cad turned villain who captured her heart, but got away. The plot that Sittenfeld has created for Rodham hinges on a simple question: what if Hillary Clinton rejected Bill’s marriage proposal and struck out on her own?

Yummy. Self-serving political stroke material for the hot flash set. “Without that horrible old Bill, she would have been a star!”

Or a no-name lawyer who defended child rapists. You know, whichever.

Let’s keep going.

Sittenfeld’s Clinton appears fully formed at her Wellesley College commencement speech and then jumps immediately into her relationship with Bill, to whom she refers multiple times as a “lion.” Their initial attraction is magnetic, and plays on Hillary’s desire to feel wanted by a man as charismatic and handsome as Bill. The effect that Bill had on Hillary’s life is undoubtedly profound. He’s portrayed as her intellectual equal and a sparring partner that recognizes her for her intellect as well as her body and its pleasures—the latter of which is rendered in rapturous, erotic detail.

“Your outsides are attractive all by themselves. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say this during the women’s movement, but you have great tits. And your little waist, and your nice soft bum, and your delicious honey pot…”

I joined Bill in bed, and when I was lying on my back naked and he was lying on top of me naked, he looked at me and smiled. He said, “Hillary, I really enjoy discussing theology with you. I also enjoy doing lots of other things with you,” and then he plunged inside me.

“Delicious honey pot.”

The rational mind can only assume that Bill is saying her cooter is full of bees.

“Then he plunged inside me.”

Hot! Right, ladies? Ladies? Don’t you love to be plunged? Like as unto a clogged toilet or a slow-draining sink of soap-scummed desire?

And then:

“Please don’t get pulled over,” I said, and after that I really couldn’t speak. I was writhing against his fingers. I lasted about two minutes, and then I was saying as quietly as I could, “Oh, baby. Bill. Bill. Baby, I love you so much.” He stopped moving his fingers and just cupped me, and I whimpered incoherently.

Bill and Biden do have something in common: a love of the good old America fingerbang.

After this, Bill tries to get road head. No, seriously:

He lifted his hand off me and gestured toward his own lap, where he clearly had an erection.

Finally free of Bill after he fucks his boss’ daughter, Hillary rises in political power. And this is key. The summary of the book is that Bill was the only mistake real Hillary ever made, the only blot of mustard or uncooked potato in her biography. Free of Bill, her path to power and popularity was relatively smooth sailing.

An appealing fantasy for the addle-brained, ignoring the essential Hillary of Hillary to spin a comforting yarn for the election eve bawlers.

But, wait! There’s more!

I Read A Bunch of Rodham Sex Scenes So You Wouldn’t Have To

And the truth was that when he was thrusting into me, I had such a strong sense of wanting him to come inside me, wanting no barriers between us, wanting the things we did with each other to be different from the things we did in the rest of our lives, with other people. None of this was remotely like what I’d felt with Roy or Eddie. I’d regarded their semen as, if not disgusting, then as messy and mildly regrettable, like a spilled glass of water.

I fall back to a quotation, my mind in retreat:

“Drenching the neck of my womb like a hail of birdshit.”

-Warren Ellis

Just to make it clear… These are the New Black Panthers* protesting a closed Chinese restaurant in Washington D.C. over the treatment of African people in China by the Chinese government. OK? OK.

*New Black Panthers because the members eventually age out of participating and are replaced, much like the Latino boy band, Menudo.

Jamie Lee Curtis moving behind the camera with Blumhouse for horror movie about climate change

“I’m 61 and my motto now is: ‘If not now, when, if not me, who?’” Curtis said in a statement. “I’m excited to have a creative home to explore my own ideas and others. Jason and his team have made me feel welcome. Comet is ready to bring these stories to screen life.”

Curtis is writing the film, titled Mother Nature, alongside Comet’s Head Of Film and TV Development, Russell Goldman.

I guess she burned through all the money from those commercials for that yogurt that makes women poop. A lateral career move, at best.