Photo by Hillary Clinton via Flickr

Dearest Chelsea,

I bore you out of my womb just for this moment. Sure, there were other good times along the way (when I saw you at age 9, when I saw you again at age 15 by the kitchen, the time I asked you for advice concerning your father’s indiscretions and you just stared at me with a mocking grin while miming the act of fellatio), but this is the real McCoy. This is for all the marbles. Fast Track is a rite of passage among generations of Rodham women. You took an early 6-0 lead, which is funny because I let you. You know the expression: “That’s why they play to seven”? Or did they not teach you teach that at Stanford? I learned it on the mean streets of suburban Chicago. Northwest side.

I rattled off six quick points and slowly watched the confidence seep out of your pale face. Your rosy cheeks rouged even more. I like to play with my prey. Then, on match point, you set me off. You tried a wild bank shot that banged pathetically off the boards from side to side with little forward trajectory. It didn’t even cross the center line. This is why I’m laughing, no, choking on my esophagus while tears stream out of my face. It’s at your utter futility. You reached your dainty arm out to retrieve your wayward puck, and I smoked it down your throat. Game. Set. Match. Hillary.

The pundits say, “Hillary, where is your emotion? You are John Kerry in a lady suit.” Well Chelsea, I saved it all for you on this Fast Track machine. This just happened. If I win the presidency, I’ll save a special title for you: First Bitch.