Paul Pelosi, martini in hand, cruises down the highway. He looks even more nervous than his world-famous wife. He looks to his right and sees another woman in the passenger seat of his 2022 Tesla Model X.
It’s none other than Hillary Rodham Clinton.
As agreed, Pelosi met her at Palm Springs International Airport. From there, their plan is to drive the former first lady, U.S. senator, secretary of state, and Woman Who Lost the White House to Donald J. Trump to a lunchtime fundraiser at a multi-billionaire Social Justice Warrior's spectacular mansion beside the 12th fairway within a well-protected, gated community in Indian Wells. It's just not safe these days, Pelosi thinks to himself, to get too close to the Little People.
Pelosi glances at Clinton as she scowls at the spiny cacti and blazing rocks outside her passenger window. These denizens of the desert, in turn, bristle at the sudden chill from her Arctic stare.
What a phony, Paul thinks to himself, suddenly grinning as the exhausted feminist warhorse looks left and catches his eyes. I sure as hell better smile back, Paul ponders. If not, she might have me suicided.
Paul drives along through the blistering Coachella Valley. One of the Tesla’s array of gauges updates him. External temperature: 115 degrees Fahrenheit.
Paul wrinkles his brow. Did he miss a turn, perhaps 15 minutes back? His sense of direction is not what it once was, and his pounding hangover doesn’t help.
Where am I? he asks within.
Before too long, though, his luxury sedan’s juice runs out, thanks, in part, to the rolling black outs that menace the Golden State.
“Damnit,” Paul mutters to Hillary. “I wish the power had not crashed at our winery in Napa Valley before I could finish charging my Tesla.”
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Hillary snaps: “If I were you, I would have planned for that.”
As usual, no specifics, Paul observes to himself. Why can’t someone this superior also be at least slightly helpful?
So, as the EV finally sputters to a stop, the two leading Democrats exit the four-door.
“No bars,” Hillary barks after a few moments, frowning at her cell phone.
“Nothing on mine, too,” Paul says, as a crack in his voice hints at his mounting worry.
They shuffle along for a while and then pick up the pace as they both spot a beautiful stream, off in the distance. At last, they are saved!
Little do Paul and Hillary know, this is a mirage. Their joint hallucination is as barren as the former first lady’s loins.
They struggle wearily toward the imaginary waterway. How annoying! Even as they think they approach it, it moves further away.
Desperate to quench her deepening thirst, Hillary unscrews the small Yeti bottle that she had tucked into her purse, right beside her hot sauce.
Alas, it’s more arid than an empty baby-formula bottle, due to today’s drought — the worst here since roughly 1000 A.D., about the time that Norse explorer Leif Erikson landed at Newfoundland. Also unhelpful: California Democrats’ refusal to build dams, reservoirs, or anything that — ewwwwwwwwwwww gross! — might retain water.
Hillary turns the rusty handle on the emergency spigot at a dusty, old rest stop that she and Paul discover among the dunes. It creaks loudly, but nothing comes out.
“Crap!” Hillary moans beneath her weakening breath. “Maybe Gavin Newsom should have stored some of that rainwater rather than use it to irrigate the underside of the Golden State Bridge.”
Pelosi cradles a Thermos full of frigid martinis -- stirred, not shaken.
“Paul, could you spare a splash? I don’t care if it’s made of gin or vodka. I just want it wet.”
“Hillary,” Paul replies. “It doesn’t look good. You’re on your own, Toots.”
As they slouch toward the ever-receding mirage, the Democrat dinosaurs collapse onto the searing sands, immobilized. Pelosi sips from his intoxicating Thermos, hoping that he might hold on – or at least ease the pain, if he doesn’t.
Paul looks at Hillary, who is even less hardy than he, despite his 82 years of age. Good luck, kid, says his internal monologue.
The last thing Hillary sees before dehydration and severe heat exhaustion overwhelm her is a wake of buzzards circling overhead.
Finally, Hillary gets one, and only one, drop of moisture in her mouth, as a drooling vulture unwittingly dribbles a tiny bit of avian saliva from its beak. It falls ever so gently, like a drop of holy water, onto the Duchess of Chappaqua’s sandpaper-like tongue.
“Ah, what a relief,” Hillary smiles as her head swims, and the sweltering High Noon vista fades to black.
The End.
Manhattan-based political commentor Deroy Murdock is a Fox News Contributor.
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