Tonight’s Buzz’s Bedtime Stories starts as a nightmare and concludes with a happy ending. Grab an adult beverage, put the kids to bed, and settle in. This is the story of Hillary and Chelsea!
In early January 1997, the Clintons and entourage (including me) were going to St. Thomas, the Virgin Islands, for a presidential vacation. This was the infamous trip where Bill and Hill were filmed "dancing on the beach" in what can only be described as a really bad idea.
The trip had been planned for weeks, and most of the logistics were set. But as soon as Air Force One touched down in St. Thomas, I knew something was amiss. Mrs. Clinton was very visibly upset. She went off on her immediate staff, essentially screwing herself into the top of the aircraft. Loud, four-letter words were bouncing around the fuselage. I heard the loud yelling and profanity, and approached to get involved and help. Always a dicey proposition with Hillary. Into the breach I went once more.
The staff quickly learned that Chelsea, a senior in high school, had left her backpack full of textbooks in the hotel room in Hilton Head, South Carolina, where the Clintons had been attending their annual Renaissance Weekend, a gathering of Democrat government, business, media, and academic leaders.
But it wasn’t Chelsea’s fault, of course, because, according to Hillary, it was everybody’s fault EXCEPT for Chelsea. Hillary was specifically hell bent on blaming the president’s valets. Which was sad and completely unfair.
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Buzz’s Bedtime Stories: The Essence of Hillary
The president is traditionally served by career Navy-enlisted men as valets. These valets, Filipino by birth, have a long, proud tradition of serving the First Family in the White House going back at least to 1909. In my experience, they were loyal, devoted, impeccable employees. They worked diligently to attend to every detail—no matter how small. But, right now, Hillary had them squarely in her sights, and she was firing profanity bullets.
It seemed amazing to me that the idea of holding Chelsea responsible—Chelsea would soon be a freshman at Stanford—never crossed Hillary’s mind. It wasn’t a thought. Kelly Craighead, Hillary’s personal aide and also the recipient of Hillary’s scorn, asked me to find a way to get the books down to St. Thomas tout de suite. Chelsea had finals approaching and “needed to study.” We sprang into Hillary crisis mode.
I called back to Hilton Head, catching my fellow military aide before she caught her return flight to D.C. She sounded the alarm, gathered remaining White House staffers, and scurried to find the backpack. Once the backpack was safely in hand, we dispatched one of the president’s valets via a commercial airliner to deliver the goods. He landed and brought them directly to the home where the Clintons were staying. The books were on Chelsea’s bedside table when she woke up.
Dutiful staff never heard another word. No thank yous, remorse, or acknowledgment from Hillary. Nothing. Just another day in the Clinton White House—the quick assignment of blame, and a relatively minor issue mushrooming quickly out of control. Just another day living with Hillary Clinton.
I’ve been shot at with bullets from angry men who wanted to kill me. Nothing compares to the PTSD that Hillary infected me with. Not even close!
