My Main Man Bill Clinton

Andy Ward's got the youth vote clinched

Man, Bill really went to the plate for me over this whole health care thing. I mean, the dude's not even in office anymore and they still listen to him more than they listen to me. I don't blame them, though. My man Clinton is a straight-up class act, I'm talking 24/7/365. I can admit my strengths. I write better speeches than him, plus I can handle my smoke, but I'm just not a head-cracker. I used to wonder what he and Hillary saw in each other, but now I don't have any questions. At least, not after I saw the two of them take down a 10-point buck with a coordinated assault complete with camo and a pincer maneuver. Clintons are hardcore.

A part of me can't wait until I'm out of the politics game so I can write my memoirs, if only so I can get to polishing the story of the time Bill and Hillary saved my behind when I was on assignment in Bogota with Lily Mayfield from MI6. That was back in my community organizer days. Yeah, me and Lily-flower were organizing a community of armed rebels to take down this drug kingpin who had established a de facto fiefdom around Ubaque. The Colombians didn't want word of it getting out, seeing as they hadn't long been rid of that rat Escobar. Being the youthful idealist I was, I decided that it was wrong to send these noble farmers off to die in what promised to be an epically ugly battle. I kissed Lily on her forehead and slipped out of bed without her noticing.

Making my way around the perimeter, checking for alarm trips every few yards, I thought I could get a clear shot of Narancha, the man responsible for all of this. I set up my custom M40 on a hill full of brush and tried to get a bead on Narancha's office or bedroom. Arrogant vatos like that never sleep in underground bunkers or anything. Makes them look weak. I might have pulled it off, too, if one of the guards hadn't sneaked off to smoke a J. Our mapping algorithms still don't compensate for stuff like that. Before I knew it I had a Desert Eagle poking the back of my head.

I thought for sure I was gonna die, but that didn't scare me. What got me shaking was the rumor at base camp that Narancha's "doctor" learned his craft from Cheney. It was 90 degrees in the middle of the night and I still got a shiver. No sooner than we walked through the compound gates did I see a tower guard fall from his perch and the Deagle-toting stoner at my back went down from a double-tap to the chest. It was Bill, armed to the teeth and going mad-dog on a small army of cocaine guerrillas. He tossed me a piece and we started to hightail it out of there.

When we got past the gate Bill told me to hit the dirt. A second later, a blazing chunk of munitions made short work of the compound's petrol reserve. Rockets' red flare, indeed. Bill smiled and I knew he had Hillary with him. Nobody else could make a killer shot like that. We hopped in the ATV they had parked under cover and picked up Hillary before tearing back to base camp.

And Narancha? He made the mistake of trying to track down the cold mothers who fragged his compound. No one's heard from him since '93.