Monica as the spoiled brat     by Malin Hansson

So in the 3rd grade, we had these clever little desks with drawers on either side. Niftiest of all was the little pencil container on the inside of the lid. Some kids used it nonchalantly, for regular, boring blue ballpoints and pencils with the ends chewed off. But not me. Nope. I saved that sacred slot for my prime Hello Kitty erasers, Little Twinkle Stars rulers, and my most coveted writing instrument of all: a purple pen with glitter inside that sparkled extra when you wrote.

One sunny spring day, Mrs. Bayer gave us a pop quiz in math. I did my best, tried really hard to solve the tricky fractions, and was just about to give in to fate's ultimate will, when I spotted Amy, sitting right next to me, slyly sliding a CHEAT SHEET from the inside tiny drawer of her desk. She peeked at her notes, then began scribbling answers furiously onto her test. I was completely appalled. Aghast. I glanced around, but nobody else noticed.

All of a sudden the bell rang, and my fellow students scrambled outside. Amy, the CHEATER, dropped her test on the front desk, then joined her "popular" friends outside for a game of kickball. Instead of squealing to the teacher, I followed my mom's advice and kept quiet. "Nobody likes a tattle tale," she would always say. I figured she was right.

Three days later it happened. Mrs. Bayer returned the tests. I got a B-, and I was pretty happy with that. As Amy waited for hers, I could hardly breathe. I sat completely still. Holding my breath. Crossing my fingers....

"Class," announced Mrs. Bayer. "I want you all to congratulate Amy. She got the highest grade on the math quiz."

WHAT? I almost shouted. Instead, I watched our teacher happily stride over to Amy, that pathetic liar, and hand her test back, an immaculate A+ proudly displayed in the corner.

I wanted to cry. And scream. Pull her hair and ruin her dress. The other night I watched Monica "I can't stop smiling" Lewinsky on Saturday Night Live. For a moment, I was back in the 4th grade, feeling the same itching, uncomfortable, wave of nausea overcome me.

This time, at least, I had the option of turning off the TV. But, like millions of other Americans, I watched. I sat on the couch, clutching my Campari and Tonic, waiting for something. Some sign of humility, insecurity, or maybe even a little pathetic embarrassment. Instead, what we got was minute after agonizing minute of Monica smiling at the camera, flipping her hair, and alluding once again to that way-too-private cigar moment in the White House. She cracked jokes like the best of them, trying so hard to make light of the scandal that embarrassed the United States in front of the rest of the world. Our tourists are already the laughing stock of the world. This is just icing on the cake.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that she blew the President. I could care less. I might be naive, but even I'm aware of the sexual favors and extramarital trysts go with politics like milk goes with chocolate chip cookies. People lie and cheat and murder and steal. Fine. But whatever. Get off your high horse Monica, and realize, please realize, that the country, or the entire world for that matter is completely disgusted with you. And the European books tour? Puh-lease. Sure, ratings were high for that completely un-funny SNL episode. But only because we were all hoping for some sort of face-saving. Anything to make me not hate you.

Because that is what it has come down to.