Words to Live By Since 1993 A SPIFF Publication Vol. 2, No. 51 We'll be back again some day. Thumpity thump-thump.... It's the last issue of WTLB for the year 1994. This week, we have abandoned the Spiff Executive Plaza, towering above beautiful downtown Donelson, Tennessee, in order to spend time with our families. There may have been news this week. We don't know. We don't care. We were celebrating Christmas. But we haven't forgotten the friends of Spiff. We're rerunning one of last year's most popular issues, slightly updated for 1994. With that, we now present The Return of St. Slick 'Twas the night before Christmas, and through the White House stray bullets were flying at Bill and his spouse. Ol' Sox was still hiding by the chimney with fright in hope that no airplanes would crash in the night. The Congress was nestled, all smug in their pensions and places for parking, and perks we can't mention. Ma in her slippers and I in my socks had just settled down with Mr. H&R Block when out on Bill's track there arose such a clatter I turned on C-Span to see what was the matter. To stop all the noise I sought someone who's smarter. I wanted Al Haig, but I got Jimmy Carter. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a luster of midday to Little Rock below. And what did I see through the wintertime fog but a miniature sleigh pulled by eight P.C. hogs. With a little old driver so liberal and quick I knew in a moment that it must be St. Slick. They looked like America, his cabinet they came. He lied and he waffled and replaced them by name. "Out Elders! Out Espy! Out Dee Dee and Aspin! Get out Stephanopolous, Gergen, and Bentsen! To the top of the Capitol and down to the Mall, now tax away, tax away, tax away all!" So up to the trailer top the promises they flew, with a sleigh full of pork and St. Slickolas too. The noise on my roof caused a quake of the earth like an old El Camino with fake Astroturf. As I hid my wallet and was turning around, down the chimney St. Slickolas_SPLAT!_hit the ground. He felt his own pain, for he'd twisted his foot and he cursed and said something obscene about Newt. A bundle of pork he had flung on his back like a defeated Democrat laundering money from his PAC. His eyes how they twinkled with some evil powers His cheeks were like roses, or some other Flowers. His loot sack said "Madison Savings and Loans" and I screamed in shear terror, "I'm not Paula Jones!" The stump of a heavily taxed cigar he held tight in his teeth and the second-hand smoke wrapped his head like a wreath. He had a big gut, and those white, flabby thighs that shook when he laughed, to no one's surprise. He was chubby and plump; you might say he was fat. He inhaled when he saw me, and he lied about that. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had something to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. He took all the stockings and turned, the big jerk. He lay his thumb aside of his nose and with all my cash, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a clap and away they all flew, to hit the next poor sap. But I heard him exclaim, as the morning was nearing, "I'll be back again soon, barring Whitewater hearings."