Leaking Havoc

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, February 15, 1998; Page F01 

The problem, my fellow Americans, is leakage.

Not gifts. Not late-night phone calls. Not the sign in the Oval Office that
says: "Keep your hands off the interns. That's my job."

Leaks. President Clinton is extremely concerned about the impropriety of
grand jury leaks.

If I were Mr. Clinton, I might be more concerned about where I left my my
pants.

And this is really going to frost him. Everybody's leaking to me.

Linda Tripp. William Ginsburg. Picabo Street. Kenneth Starr. Ringo Starr.
Ashley Raines. Laura Ashley. Paul Begala. Betty Currie. The other Spice
Girls, too.

I'm the King of Leaks.

On my office door is a sign that reads: "I'll Be Back Soon. I'm Taking a
Leak."

Just yesterday one of the president's lawyers called and told me, "That's
not Paula Corbin Jones's real nose."

I thought: "Her real nose was worse than that? Who's her plastic surgeon,
Picasso?"

Why do so many people leak to you, Tony?

Because I'm an incredibly influential journalist. And because the record
shows that I will believe almost anything. I'll even believe that President
Clinton never so much as noticed the heaving bosom of Monica "The
Harmonica" Lewinsky.

Well . . . 

The latest revelation, from retired Secret Service agent Lewis Fox, is that
Lewinsky spent 40 minutes alone with Clinton in the Oval Office, where
she was "dropping off papers" for the president.

That's a lot of time to spend dropping off papers.

What papers, the Sunday Post, Times, Globe, Tribune, Chronicle, the
Unabomber manifesto and the Magna Carta?

In response, all the president's men started talking about the number of
doors to the Oval Office. There are four. Since Fox could have stood
guard at only one door, the administration claim is that as Monica dropped
off the papers, other people could have entered through other doors.

Door No. 3, Monty. I pick Door No. 3.

Some people are aghast that Starr hauled Monica's mother before the
grand jury to rat on her daughter. But what a star turn for the stage-struck
Marcia Lewis. Now she can insist on playing herself in the film version.

She's a tour de force. She sucks all the air out of the room. Her voice
shakes. Her lips quiver. ("Collagen injections. Am I not gorgeous?") She is
so overcome they call in a nurse to attend to her. ("Oy, I've got such a
migraine. Please, somebody be a doll and bring me some water. What's
this? Tap water? You don't have Evian?") She's so distraught she can't
testify the next day, she has to rest. What a nightmare!

Ginsburg the lawyer delivers the lowest blow, saying Marcia "looked like
hell . . . 10 years older and drained." I figured her next step was to show
up bandaged like a mummy, asking to testify from the ER at Sibley
Memorial Hospital with a poodle on her lap.

Like everybody else in Washington, I'm waiting to be subpoenaed. My
friend Nancy was.

"You gotta tell me: What did they ask you?"

"They asked me, woman to woman, if I really thought Monica's mother
was 49."

Now I'm ready to testify. I have my "talking points" ready.

Monica's mom faxed them to me.

She told me: "When they ask you about Kathleen Willey, say with
confidence that you were the one who saw her come out of the Oval
Office. And that her clothes weren't undone at all. And, more important,
that they weren't nearly as figure-flattering or expensive as the designer
clothing that Monica wears, and Monica is much prettier, and what is all
the fuss about? I mean, who do you have to sleep with to get a decent job
in this town?"

I'm particularly eager to hear from Monica herself. To tell you the truth --
hey, there's a catchy phrase, huh? -- I'm tired of all the bit players around
her, especially her publicity-hound lawyer. Did you notice how when he
took this case he was William? And now, as he gets chummier with the
media, he's "Bill." In just three weeks this guy has become a part of
America's Sunday morning routine: bagels, coffee and Ginsburg. He's
calling Wolf Blitzer "Wolfie." I could swear I heard him refer to Cokie
Roberts as "The Cokester." He flew Monica back to Washington on
Thursday so he could get over his jet lag in time to look alert on "Meet the
Press." Next thing you know he'll be subbing for the Gadget Guru on
"Weekend Today."

Gee, Tony, why are you so mad at Bill?

Because he promised that Monica would testify if compelled. He said,
"She is not going to jail like Susan McDougal." Darn. Remember how hot
Susan was in her leather miniskirt and leg irons? You know what the prison
guards call those leg irons? "Stride-rites." I really want to see Monica in
Stride-rites. I love that steamy, pouty "Chicks in Cages" look.

In conclusion, I know I join with all Americans in expressing confidence in
Hillary Rodham Clinton's prediction that all this "will slowly dissipate."

And so, eventually, will the smell on the carpet where Buddy had an
accident.

"I just wish everyone would take a deep breath," Mrs. Clinton said.

Just remember, like Bill, don't inhale.

Excerpted from the forthcoming runaway bestseller "Bad Stuff About
Monica's Mom." All rights reserved by Tony Kornheiser and Lucianne
Goldberg. 

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