— Come, Sherman, to the Way Back Machine.
— Where're we going today, Mr. Peabody?
— The year: 1995. The place: A windowless corridor off the Oval Office in the White House. It's there I expect we'll meet the president of the United States.
— But 1995 isn't very long ago. Couldn't we just fly to Washington and meet the exact same president now as well be meeting back then?
— Not by a long shot. The William Jefferson Clinton of 1995 hadn't yet been dragged through the mud by his genitalia.
— By his what, Mr. Peabody?
— Never mind, Sherman.
· · ·
— Here we are, Mr. Peabody. And there's the president, just like you said. But who's that girl with him? And why is she kneeling down in front of him? Is she the presidential shoe shiner?
— No, but she's quite willing to buff a presidential pump when asked. Quick! There's no time to lose! President Clinton ...
— What the? Who are you and how did you get past the Secret Service?
— That's not important, Mr. President. What is important is that I know precisely what's going on here. Believe me when I tell you it's imperative this young lady get up and that you recall your "Ambassador to Fellatio" before he makes a calamitous public appearance.
— Uh, listen, Cujo, we're kind of busy here. Why don't you and the little tyke there just blow?
— Like, um, are you asking me to do the dog?
— Are you mad, strumpet?
— Heh. No, darlin', you got it all wrong. I just meant they should "blow outta here."
— As I was saying, Mr. President, if Ms. Lewinsky here is permitted to bring her rather heady task to, ahem, climax, it shall not only be a breach of your marriage vows, it will eventually threaten your presidency.
— I'm not buying it, Benji. I believe that I, like the great John F. Kennedy before me, can submit to all manner of sexual lickin' yet keep on politically tickin'. Besides, what's all this to you?
— As a member of the liberal intelligentsia, I'd like to spare my friends, as well as myself, from having to defend the loutish, self-destructive activities of a perjuring sex addict. Furthermore, I'd like to spare the whole of America from a prolonged and altogether nasty exposure to Rep. Henry Hyde.
— Tell you what, Lassie, you write a five-figure check to the DNC right now and I promise to take your obviously heartfelt concerns under advisement.
— What!? Do I look like a Sharpei!? Some moneyed Asian cur dying to spend the night in the Lincoln kennel?
— Down, Fido, down. Maybe you better go find a leg to hunch while this young lady and I get back to business? Hey, hon, how 'bout hummin' "Hail to the Chief" while you're at it ...
— Come, Sherman, I'm afraid we're wasting our time here.
— OK, Mr. Peabody. But remind me: What's the capital of Fellatio?
— It's not important, my boy. However, you should know this: The president's aforementioned ambassador there will soon "come" a cropper. ©