Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Curly, Cognac, Cigars,

And curly strikes out! As I said before, I don't like curly. I question his love for Chelsea. Apart from that I have this idea he is mocking me. Every time he is at our house he talks about his dad's cigar and cognac collection. Sunday him and Chelsea visited us. I took curly to the mall to buy wine for dinner. In the car I encouraged curly to talk. He gave me a "lesson" in old cognac, good cognac, French cognac. Actually he knew his cognac. We went to the liquor store and I asked him to choose a bottle of cognac for after dinner. He did. With a cocky smirk on his face. I asked him for advise about which cigars to buy. He "showed" me the good ones. He insisted on paying for the cognac, Courvoisier. I hesitated, but if someone wants to buy the rope for his own hanging, who am I to say no?

OK. After dinner, which was pretty good and made by the housekeeper and warmed up by Hillary, I asked curly, who had eaten his belly full, encouraged by me allowing him to dominate the table conversation to come and sit in Hillary's chair next to the fireplace. I was just in time, before Hillary's customary "I'm going to do the dishes" and curly's "Let me help you Mrs. Clinton". I gave curly the cognac bottle. He opened it and sniffed the cork and filled to glasses. He sniffed the glass, looked at the color of the cognac closed his eyes and drank. Curley said "Ah, sweet. You made a good decision, Mr. Clinton. After a good meal is the best time to enjoy cognac". I looked at this young punk. I hate curly. I offered him a cigar, just as Hillary said "I'm going to do the dishes". No response. I was lighting curly's cigar. "Curley, would you like to help?" "I'll be right there Mrs. Clinton". Hillary went into the kitchen and I encouraged curly to tell me all about cognac, cigars, wine, cars, sports. Again came the "Curley, you wanna help?" "I'll be right there, Mrs. Clinton". We were sipping on our second glass and I was still feeding curly. He talked non stop. Chelsea threw her arms in the air and went into the kitchen to help her mom. By this time, me and curly were both feeling sleepy from the cognac, the warmth of the fireplace and dinner. I asked curly "Is it true that when you close your eyes, the cigar tastes much better?" "Oh yes, just try it". I closed my eyes. "Oh yes, you're completely right". Curly smiled sat back and closed his sleepy eyes. careful not to make any sound I got up and walked into the kitchen. I told Hillary "curly wants to ask you something". Ostensibly she wiped her hands on this rag Palestinian president Arafat had given us as a farewell present and walked into the living room. I was behind her, but I could feel her stare as she stopped and looked at curly, lying back in her chair, in one hand a cigar, in the other a glass of cognac, his eyes closed, his face content. I could feel every fibre of her feminist being revolting at this scene. I guess curly noticed the temperature in the room had gone down quite significantly. He half opened his eyes and saw Hillary. "Oh hi, Mrs. Clinton. I'll be right there".

I know my Hillary. She never openly gives her opinion. She just makes you feel her opinion. I know what's next for curly. She's going to cut him a thousand times Native American style. Every time she talks to Chelsea she'll cut him a little. By themselves these cuts aren't deadly, but I know pretty soon Chelsea will come home in tears to tell us curly is not the man she thought he was and that she had broken up with him. For that day, I'm saving the rest of the cognac bottle.
Cheers, curly.