SNIP!
http://www.nypress.com/17/36/news&columns/AlexanderZaitchik.cfmI heard of Jenna's imminent arrival while sitting in a bar with Jeff Koyen and another friend. Immediately, the task before us was obvious: Someone had to score the clueless, moon-faced First Daughter. The three devils on our right shoulders crushed cans of Staropramen against their foreheads in unison.
The mission was doable. We knew Jenna's favorite bars from media accounts of her previous visit; we'd simply stake out those places until she appeared, loud sorority sisters and quiet Secret Service detail in tow. We'd pretend not to know or care who she was. We'd buy her and her friends lots of tequila, impress upon them the usual expat pick-up clichés, then lead the way to the real party.
The more we talked about the mission, the more ambitious it became. Soon a presidential pube and bragging rights weren't trophies enough. We wanted to inflict pain on the father, even complicate his relationship with his Christian base. None of us believed in violence, but mutual-consent sperm assassins we could be. Our new, bolder plan required only a small digital video camera and a plastic Osama bin Laden Halloween mask, both of which we had. Think Chasing Liberty meets the Paris Hilton video.
As the three of us watched the doors at the same bars and clubs night after night, we calculated the size of the window between making our Jenna porn public and the arrival of a government bullet equidistant between our hairline and eyebrows. Death would come swift, we all agreed. But we also agreed that some things were worth dying for, and that an internet video of a drunken Jenna Bush getting pounded by Osama bin Laden was one of them. We said our prayers and waited.
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