CEDAR RAPIDS – After enjoying a slice of mincemeat pie and coffee with local residents at the Wood-Knot diner this afternoon, Hillary Clinton appeared disappointed at the small number of reporters and cameras waiting for her outside the diner. As she waved to a passing car that honked several times, the former secretary of state was asked by a reporter from the Iowa Farmer newspaper what her thoughts were on Donald Trump’s surge in the polls. Mrs. Clinton turned beet red and lashed out at the reporter.
“Donald Trump? This was supposed to be the summer of Hillary! Why aren’t you asking me about me? What about income inequality or racism? I’ve spent a month sitting in diners eating meatloaf and nobody cares because you guys are obsessed with Trump. I’ve spent decades, decades waiting for this moment and you’re asking me about Donald Trump? What difference does he make? God damn it, this was supposed to be the summer of Hillary!”
As members of Mrs. Clinton’s staff rushed her into Scooby, her armored campaign van, former President Bill Clinton walked out carrying a piece of luggage and spoke to reporters. Mr. Clinton was asked if his wife was OK.
“Oh, Hillary’s just tired. After a month of eating at these roadside diners she’s got some intestinal issues and her nerves are a bit frayed. But she’ll be her old jovial self in a day or two. Sometimes campaign tours can make you a little stir crazy, like you’re being pulled in all directions. But she’s gonna be fine.”
A reporter asked Mr. Clinton how his wife deals with the pressure of campaigning.
“Well, we always bring along my ventriloquist doll, Mr. Poontang,” Mr. Clinton said, lifting up the luggage he was holding. “He has a way of cheering Hillary up when the campaign trail wears her down.”
“Could we meet Mr. Poontang, sir?” a reporter asked.
President Clinton smiled shyly. “Ah, heck, why not.”
BILL CLINTON: Why don’t you say hello to the nice reporters, Mr. Poontang?
MR. POONTANG: (Looks up at Clinton) You woke me up for this? They’re all guys. Where are the babes?
BILL CLINTON: Ah, c’mon, Mr. Poontang, say hello to the nice reporters.
MR. POONTANG: (Heavy sigh) Hello.
BILL CLINTON: So, whatcha up to today, Mr. Poontang?
MR. POONTANG: What am I up to? That’s an odd question coming from the guy with his hand up my ass.
MR. POONTANG: Watch my language? That language is coming out of your barely disguised moving lips, buster.
BILL CLINTON: Mr. Poontang, let’s just have a little fun and entertain the folks. Can’t you just play along and have fun?
MR. POONTANG: If you want me to have fun all you gotta do is change the dialogue, Einstein. You’re the one in charge here. I’m just a piece of wood dressed in a tuxedo.
BILL CLINTON: I feel you’re pain, Mr. Poontang.
MR. POONTANG: That’s not pain you’re feeling, buddy, that’s my prostate.
Suddenly the door to the campaign van burst open and an angry Mrs. Clinton leaned out.
MR. POONTANG: The sh*t is about to hit the fan, Billy.
“Oh my god, Bill, not Mr. Poontang!!” Hillary exclaimed.
The van’s engine revved to a start as the former president ran towards it, anxiously stuffing Mr. Poontang back into the suitcase.
“It’s OK, Hillary,” he cried, “Just havin’ a little fun with the reporters, Hon.”
The campaign van squealed its wheels as it pulled out of the parking lot before President Clinton reached it.
“This was supposed to be the summer of Hillary!” Mrs. Clinton yelled, her fist shaking out of the window as the van sped away.
Mr. Poontang’s limp legs dangled out of the half shut suitcase as the former president jumped into a secret service car, speeding in the direction of the disappearing campaign van, Scooby.