Want to know how I knew Hillary Clinton was going to be Secretary of State? Simple. Neither she nor her Big Dog talked to the press for, like, weeks while their misshapen hunchbacks were out robbing graves and urgently wiring all the available electricity down into transducers until it was sucked up and they shouted, "It's a-live, it's alive, it's aliiiiivvve!"
The background is complicated, in an Eyes Wide Shut kind of way. Barack Obama offered the Secretary of Herbal Teas & Bombing to Hillary Clinton, and we early and dutifully passed that information along. But there was a catch, a huge Catch-22, and that's some catch. Her husband Bill has been flying around the globe promoting his Clintonian Global Initiative for the last 8 years on a free-range combination of "Feed the World" and "Air F*** One." So the deal was, he had to turn over the names of 200,000+ foundation donors to the Obama drill-masters, and that's what all the waiting was about.
The salutatorian of my high school got mononucleosis around Christmas, so he had to stay home for a few months, and he wasn't valedictorian because the typing teacher only gave him a B+. I had to listen to him bitch about it for 4 months of my senior year after my stepfather told me he wouldn't pay for Yale or Harvard, not a dime, not even on scholarship. I know what sucks. Even so, it must not have been easy for Bill to knuckle under Arkansas-style.
I can commiserate, but my imagined intern-job (which didn't exist at the time, not until now) would've been having the internet, a sexy librarian, and a modest travel budget to go through that list of Bill's donors. Now, anytime Hillary Clinton even thinks about going off the farm I could just browse through the donor list and construct an email titled, for example: "The New York Times: Adolescent Girls Recall Orgy, Fundraising Event In Azerbaijan With Former US President."
Bill is still tasked with foreign affairs. Hillary is tasked with a rain-delayed dance in Palestine. Game's on.