Hey, Hillary, Forget High Rents, You Can Bunk at the Kornheisers’

It has come to my attention that Hillary Clinton is looking to rent a home in Washington, D.C., now that she is being evicted from public housing.

Talk about bad timing. Just as Hillary begins her freshman term as senator from New York, the Bushes are going to be tossing Hillary’s collection of 8,000 black pantsuits and that damned cat onto the south lawn.

Hillary is reportedly looking in the Georgetown section, where rent starts at $5,000 for a small, unfurnished house, and climbs to $10,000 for something more suitable.

Ten large per month! Hill, what are ya, nuts?

Look, I’m from New York. I was born and raised on Long Island and went to school in Binghamton. You’re from New York. You’re living there, what, 40 minutes now? You’re my home girl! We’re mishpukah! (That’s Yiddish for “you believe this Chicago shiksa in a Yankee hat?”)

My daughter’s going away to college. You can rent her room!

That way I’m not losing a daughter, I’m gaining franking privileges!

I grant you her room is a bit messy. For example, you can’t actually see the floor because of geologic layers of clothing, books, backpacks and remnants of Happy Meals from the late ‘80s turning into mulch. But the good news is, any sweaters or bras you find down there that fit--they’re yours!

My daughter has covered the doors and windows with white sheets, and she’s strung blinking lights and what look like large, purple-felt orchids around the room. It’s like dying and waking up in an Olive Garden. You’ll have kitchen privileges. Feel free to use my Ronco Rotisserie; you know what they say, “Just set it, and forget it.” (Sort of like what they do with George W. every morning.)

Sorry, no cable. The stuff they put on cable these days. Jeez. The other day I was watching a movie--naked young bodies writhing all over the screen, doing things I assumed were physically impossible. And my daughter walked in and said, “Dad, I can’t believe I caught you watching this. Wait till they bring out the goats.”

Speaking of embarrassing situations, how about what happened to Joseph P. Klock Jr., the poor sap who was arguing the presidential election case before the Supreme Court last week, and got the justices’ names wrong! Talk about getting your Klock cleaned!

Klock was the attorney for Katherine Harris, the Florida secretary of state and serial Maybelline abuser. I suspect he was nervous, because first he calls Justice Stevens “Justice Brennan.” This was a trifle unfortunate, seeing as how Justice Brennan retired in 1990--and died three years ago. Then, Klock calls Justice Souter “Justice Breyer.”

From then on he started calling the justices, “Bud.”

OK, I hear ya: “Cut the guy some slack. It’s hard to tell them apart in those black robes.” But there are only nine of them. And two are women, so you had to like Klock’s odds there. It’s either O’Connor or Ginsburg. You don’t think Klock would have taken a flier at “Justice Gabor,” do you?

Facing seven male justices, Klock spoke two names--and got them both wrong! And he confused one sitting Supreme Court justice with a dead guy!

And you think you had a bad day?

I’m thinking Joseph P. Klock Jr. is toast. He needs to go underground, somewhere no one will find him, pull the covers over his head and not come out again until 2008. But where?

Darn. I could rent him my daughter’s room. Except I’ve promised it to Hillary.

I think you’ll love the place. If you want me to make it seem more like what you were used to in Arkansas, I could put a washing machine in the frontyard.

Oh, there is one other small thing: Elizabeth isn’t going away to college until September. So in the meantime you have to bunk with her. But not to worry, there’s another mattress in the room. It’s down on the floor. Somewhere.