Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:

However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.

The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.

Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.

Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)

Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:

However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.

The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.

Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.

Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)

Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:

However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.

The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.

Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.

Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)

That’s what the headline of this story should have been. Strange that the UPI reporter is either unaware of M. Chirac’s legal problems, or chose not to mention them. They would seem quite relevant to his motivation for another term.

This is pretty disgusting. As one commenter says, that’s one store chain to knock off my shopping list this year.

That it can be hip to wear something like this is a testament to the failure of our educational system, from K-12 through the academy.

[Via Laughing Wolf]

What would be the difference between Thanksgiving menus for Jesusland, as opposed to southern Canada? How would a “Red” Turkeyday differ from a “Blue” one?

Provide both menus, and prayers.

The comments are open…

Kathleen Willey says that Senator Clinton had better be aware of what will happen if she decides to run for president. Like the Vietnam vets, these women haven’t forgotten that she was complicit in the lies and smears.

[Update at 1:15 PM EST]

So much for Bill’s legacy.

OK, over three years later, with our men fighting house to house in Iraq, is there anyone out there (c’mon, raise your hands), anyone who isn’t aware of Islam?

I wonder if this Paula Berinstein is this Paula Berinstein?

Let those Democratic leaders who think their party should show more religious faith and moderate its stand on abortion know this: If the Democratic Party does so, it will lose millions of lifelong members like me.

Moving to the right is not the answer. The Democrats got 48 percent of the vote in the 2004 presidential election. They don’t need to change their positions. They need to take control of the debate, get their voters to the polls and make sure that Republicans don’t pull dirty tricks.

If the Democratic Party moves to the right, I will defect to the Green Party, as will many of my friends and family.

Paula Berinstein
Thousand Oaks, Calif., Nov. 17, 2004

That’s the problem that the Dems have. They may not be able to gain in the center without losing more heavily their base.

[Via Jim Geraghty]

This line in Richard Morin’s column about the election exit polls has bent the needle on my irony meter hard to starboard.

…rather than flog the bloggers for rushing to publish the raw exit poll data on their Web sites, we may owe them a debt of gratitude. A few more presidential elections like this one and the public will learn to do the right thing and simply ignore news of early exit poll data. Then perhaps people will start ignoring the bloggers, who proved once more that their spectacular lack of judgment is matched only by their abundant arrogance.

I wonder if he’s ever accused Dan Rather of arrogance? In a sane world, his picture would accompany the dictionary definition of the word.