Monday

Bill is on a stool at the kitchen counter, reading Playboy. I’m hungry. I stand on a chair, and fetch down a jar of gherkins. The lid is screwed on pretty tight.

“Want me to get that for you?” says Bill, looking over.

“No,” I say, because I don’t give up. I strain. I heave. I tuck it under my arm, run it under the hot tap and wrap it in a towel.

Bill adjusts himself inside his boxer shorts. “Seriously?” he says. “There’s no shame in not being able to open a jar of gherkins. Hand it over.” I snarl at him. Then I hurl it to the floor. Then I jump on it. Then I get down on my knees and I batter it with a rolling pin, again and again.

“Honey!” says Bill, slipping off his stool. “You broke the jar. You ruined them. Now nobody can eat the gherkins.” “Oh, I can eat the gherkins,” I tell him, grimly.

“But they’re full of glass,” says Bill. “Are you mad?” I go through to the bathroom and fetch a pair of tweezers. What can I say? I’m a fighter. That’s something the American people oughta know.

Tuesday

And I think the American people do know. I have just won the Pennsylvania primary. Only a fighter could do that. Everybody thought I was beat, but I never quit. I never give up. I never throw in the towel. I used to tell people I was like Rocky, but then somebody said Rocky lost to the black guy.

It’s because I’m a fighter that I’m so keen on guns. Some people say I wasn’t so keen on guns until Obama started being rude about people who owned them. They’re wrong. But, just to prove it, I’ve started sleeping with a .357 Magnum under my pillow. A few times a night I’ll take it out, cock it and point it at the door. That usually makes Bill come back to bed.

Wednesday

Fighters never stop fighting. So, now that I’ve won the fight in Pennsylvania, I’m moving on to a new fight in North Carolina. There’s a rally today, and I’ve got to make a handful of speeches. But the limo won’t start. Gng gng gng goes the engine. “Senator Clinton?” says the driver. “I guess we should use another car.” I tell him to try it again.

Gng gng gng, it goes.

In the passenger seat, Bill stops ogling Miss April. “Darlin’?” he says. “You gotta pick your battles. We got loads of cars.” Gng gng gng.

In the end, we all get out and push. We’re pretty late. But we get there. Oh, yes sir. Yes, she can!

Thursday

American people don’t quit and they deserve a president who isn’t gonna quit either. They deserve a president with a track record. A president who is gonna roll up her sleeves and get the job done.

Somebody who will try and try and try again.

“Stop it,” says Bill. “I’m not kidding. You shouldn’t eat that. Just buy some more gherkins.”

Friday

It’s 2am, and Bill finds me in our garage. He’s in a robe, and looking pretty flushed. I guess he’s been on the internet. “Honey?” he says.

Gng gng gng. “It’s not worth it,” he says. “We’ve raised $10 million in the last 24 hours. Can’t we just get a new car?” Keeping one hand on the key, I raise my Magnum. “Fine,” says Bill, and wanders off to bed. Gng gng gng.

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