When even the NY Times and the AP "dis" Blubba's book, you know we've entered a parallel universe. As for being sick of him, I absolutely cannot endure ten seconds of his self-serving, disingenuous blather, and so have avoided the Rather lovefest, Oprah and every other occasion he's seized to put his big red face on the TV screen.
Cindy Adams writes:
BILL CLINTON. Of whom you have (endlessly) heard. As I've reported, he handed in his 1,000-page book, which his editors desperately wanted him to cut, but which he wouldn't, but which cleverly got winnowed down to 950 pages because, as Knopf might've put it, "Honey, we shrunk the type." Well, guess what? The old boy's got more in him — and we are not speaking of Monica here.
On account of he was terminally squeezed to hack out some of his maunderings and meanderings, stuff's left over which he doesn't want left over. I mean the man stuck in everything but maybe a passing conversation with some pro in a men's room in Arkansas. William Jefferson has heretofore and forthwith predetermined he has at least — at least — two more books left in him. Two more. Two. Understand, his original handed-in draft, and he was still at that moment writing and adding, ran 2,400 pages. Not even Methuselah's life was that full.
Former President Clinton is, as we speak, already in first-stage negotiations for the next installments.