The Page Sixxies present us with this chestnut on Bill Clinton's bestest friend (in those times when it is politically and financially suitable to be such, of course):
"THE other night at San Pietro on East 54th Street, a mild-mannered, bespectacled, gray-haired man haltingly approached the eatery's owner, Gerardo Bruno. 'I, uh, think I'm supposed to be here,' he said, but didn't give his name. 'Please, have a seat at the bar. I should have something in a few minutes,' Bruno replied. Vernon Jordan, the Clinton-era power broker, up from Washington for the evening, jumped up from his own table, rushed forward, and told Bruno: 'Gerardo, for God's sake, give him a damn table before he buys the place!' Warren Buffett, the second richest man in the world, was seated immediately."
When Jordan jumped, did he emit a sort of high-pitched bitch squeal suggesting an uncommon degree of arousal? Proximity to money and power does that do Old Vern.
And when he rushed forward, pitched, no doubt, by a spasmodic fit of naked ambition -- did he introduce himself as "Mr. Fix-It"? (Averted gaze) Did he offer to take care of any clean up duties? Did he spontaneously evacuate his bowels like an excited puppy at the prospect of a lucrative alliance.
That Vernon Jordan.
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