In an exclusive interview with Hillary Clinton, she states that when it comes to drinking, there are three simple rules every responsible alcohol-consuming woman should follow: Don’t drink and drive, don’t drink and text, and don’t drink on a night an attack of an embassy of a third world nation is eminent.

Hillary Clinton recounts September 12, 2002; the night the US Embassy in Benghazi was attacked and her waking up the next morning with a hangover from passing and blacking out drunk the night of the attack.

Hillary says that after leaving work on September 12, 2002, I polished off a bottle of Tequila that night. I probably handled 70 percent of it. Then an unknown quantity of wine and vodka sodas as the evening progressed; I don’t recommend it.

Hillary continued on to say that she woke up the next morning in a whorehouse in Washington DC with Lyin’ Ted Cruz laying beside her. Clinton recounts, I had no idea how I got there and the sight of Lying Ted Cruz laying next to me, made me run to the bathroom to vomit.

Hillary further stated that she often spends her evenings at cocktail parties and dark bars where she proudly stays until last call.

Drinking feels like freedom to me, part of my birthright as a strong, enlightened twenty-first-century woman. But there if often a price. I often black out, waking up with a blank space where four hours should be. Can anyone blame me for not wanting to go home to Bill every night sober?

Hillary, smiling from ear to ear, says that I often walk through the front door of my home, into the bright squint of the den. My heels clickety-clak across the white stone. It’s that time of night when every floor has a banana peel, and if I’m not careful, I might find my face against the ground, my hands braced beside me, and I’ll have to explain to Bill and or one of his interns, if one is over for the night, how clumsy and hilarious I can be.

So I walk with a vigilance I hope doesn’t show. I exchange a few pleasantries with the my staff, a bit of bullshit to prove I’m not too drunk, and I’m often proud of how steady my voice sounds.

I don’t want Bill thinking I’m just another girl wasted in DC. The last thing I hear is my heels, steady as a metronome, echoing through the hallway. And then, there is nothing. Not a goddamn thing. This happens to me all the time. The night of the Benghazi attack, was one of these times.

I inquired of Hillary, do you have any regrets about having been drunk, blacked and or passed out the night of the attack on Benghazi?

No regrets, other than my waking up in a whore house having slept with Lying Ted Cruz.

Please understand that heroes are often left into deep, dark places and forced to fight their way out. They knew what they were getting in to before they decided to accept their assignments at the embassy there.  If people want to feel sorry for anyone they need to feel sorry for me.

The real question you should be asking me is the question that often launches another shitty night in DC for me.  How did I get here?

Editors Note:


Do I need to say anything more?