On my X (Twitter) account, @BuzzPatterson, I frequently post “war stories” from my years flying in the Air Force and carrying the “nuclear football” for President Bill Clinton. I tongue-in-cheek call them “Buzz’s Bedtime Stories.” Originally, they were intended for lighthearted storytelling and a sanity break from the hourly onslaught of negativity and politics on social media, but the response has been tremendous. So, let’s continue! Gather around. Grab a blanket and get cozy. Tonight, we talk about Hillary and how bats**t crazy she is!
As we discussed in the previous edition of "Bedtime Stories," the military aide and the football accompany the president at all times. In the late 1990s, I was the Air Force military aide assigned to the White House. I had an office and a bedroom in the East Wing and attended all events with the president when on duty. On this particular night, we were on our way from the White House to a local DC hotel for a fundraising event. Hillary was along for the ride because it involved raising money, of course. My vehicle in the motorcade was typically the one immediately behind the president and first lady’s limousine. It’s called the Control Van.
As the motorcade pulled into the hotel loading dock area, I knew it was going to be a long night as soon as I noticed the Clintons yelling at each other back and forth in the limo. It was heated. They were very animated and arguing in the backseat...and taking their time. Finally, they emerged from The Beast. After a very pregnant pause, the president, the first lady, two Secret Service agents, the White House doctor, and I crowded into the loading dock elevator on our way to the party on the top floor of the hotel. We typically used loading docks for security reasons.
As I immediately realized, Mrs Clinton had just received some bad news about the ongoing Whitewater investigation and she was being denied immunity for testimony by Attorney General Janet Reno. Hillary was apoplectic and she was blaming her husband. As soon as the elevator doors closed, she exploded at the president, spewing four-letter words like a machine gun. Every vulgar word you’ve ever heard — and I’ve heard them all as a vet — poured from her mouth: “Godd***it,” “You bastard,” “It’s your f**king fault!” Beak to beak, finger pointed, the whole nine. And she went on and on and on.
I noticed the alarmed glances of the agents and the doctor, and we exchanged “Oh, sh*t” side glances. We were along for the ride. I — and the football — tried to blend into the walls of the elevator to avoid any collateral damage. The agents seemed concerned. Bill looked like a beaten puppy. He simply put his head down and said, “Yes, I understand. Yes, dear, I know.” The president, embarrassed, placated her as best he could between the volleys of expletives. He knew better than to fight back.
Once we reached the top floor of the hotel complex, the elevator doors opened onto a crowded hallway for our arrival. Immediately, Bill and Hillary clasped hands, pulled out the fake smiles, and waved in unison. Typical Clintons. Same old BS. The agents, the doctor, and I just looked at each other and sighed.
Another day in the Clinton White House.
