I don't want to hear about Clinton's thing and he doesn't want to hear about mine.
If I never hear about it again, Boris, I'm concerned that'll be fine.
If he smothers himself in cold jello and bangs all his secretaries one at a time, it's a story
as old as the Capitol Hills, but it's not a capital crime.
I don't really care about Clinton's thing or his other acts of Congress.
I don't really care how he gets his kicks or what's on Monica's dress.
I don't really care if it's bodily fluids or porridge or super lychee, and I couldn't
say if it's DNA, TSP, MSG, or VP.
I don't really care about Clinton's thing or the details of his private life, but I have
the greatest respect for the woman who's stuck with being his wife.
She keeps her dignity stays on her toes while the blows fall thick and fast.
It must be difficult being first lady when you know you aren't the last.
I don't really care about Clinton's thing or his physical attributes.
If it's Venter, it's Strait, or it's so bloody long that he keeps one end stuck in his boot.
When he went on TV, it occurred to me that he really shouldn't have tried.
He just should have taken his pecker out and said, there, I hope you're satisfied.
I don't really care about Clinton's thing, I'd much rather talk about mine.
Frankly, it's starting to make me sick that they talk about his all the time.
I'm not even envious, I'm okay, and if he's having fun, well, that's fine.
But I don't want to hear about his anymore.
I'd much rather talk about, hear about, sing about.
I'd much rather talk about mine.