The despicable Clinton has DQ'd herself

Well, as Patanjali noted in his Yoga Sutras some two or two-and-a-half thousand years ago, you can read someone's mind quite easily just by noticing what they inadvertently reveal about themselves. (Cf. Matthew 15:11 on this very point, as well as the M.I.B. evasion, "No, ma'am, we in the FBI do not have a sense of humor that we are aware of.")

Hillary Clinton has apparently been rather thoughtfully immersed of nights in her T. S. Eliot, Murder In The Cathedral perhaps, which, if anything does happen to Barack Obama this June, will place her squarely in the crosshairs of every conspiracy theorist for the next ten thousand years.

For your encore apology^†, Madame, please refrain from paraphrasing Henry II's infamous line.

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Seriously, though, can't you see the writers at SNL, toiling away over hot Macs this evening?

Carmela Soprano answers the ringing phone at 3 a.m. It's Hillary on the other end, and for some reason, The Despicable One can't or won't say what she wants.

Carmela blearily suggests charades (over the phone!), and Clinton remarks that Jeez, she knows Tony Soprano's wife never went to Wellesley, but really...

"Ohhhh, Tony," says Carmela. "Yes, assassinated, poor dear. Never knew what hit him. Do you want the phone number? Just a second, it's here somewhere..." (Rummages in bedtable drawer, finds a loose Rolodex card.)

"Here it is... (Looks into camera.) It's... LIVE FROM NEW YORK! IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT!"

You could write that one, yourself, probably. Tasteless, though.

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†An "encore apology" repeats the canard with wide-eyed innocence and halo-polishing, as in, e.g., "I am truly surprised that anyone could possibly be offended by my unguarded and off-the-cuff rhetorical expostulation, 'Will no one rid me of this uppity neophyte?'"