You can't blame Bubba.
Former President Bill Clinton is just doing what Bubba does. What Bubba has always done.
You've got to remember that for all Bubba's high-flying, jet-setting, globe-trotting, poseur-statesman ways, Bubba is still just a Mississippi leg hound.
Only he's from Arkansas. Which just means he is a Mississippi leg hound with less manners. More, shall we say, "driven." Bigger "appetite." More "enthusiasm." Greater "zest for life."
It also means Big Dog is porch dog, a yard dog and even an up-under-the-porch dog.
One thing Big Dog isn't, however, is housebroken.
So how on earth can you blame him if you allow him into the plush confines or a leather-upholstered private plane? I mean, whose fault is that? Certainly not the dog's fault.
Heck, you could let Big Dog on a giant private jet with gold-plated bathroom fixtures and, well, he is still just a Mississippi leg hound from Arkansas who ain't housebroken.
And so he lets loose, right there inside the private plane all over everybody and thoroughly stinks up the place. You can't scold the poor dog. It wasn't his fault.
You see, Mississippi leg hounds aren't just about hounding after every leg they see. They have other needs, too.
There's nothing they like more after a good run of leg-hounding than to come across a rotting carcass of a dead animal in which to roll. For them, it is like smoking a cigarette in bed.
Those Big Dog nostrils flare and they sniff the rot wafting through the air. Big Dog bounds for the carcass. Couple of deep sniffs. Then he leans over and drives his shoulders right down into the carcass.
He kicks and torques his spine to dig his shoulder blades deep into the stink, rolling back and forth infusing his entire coat in the wretched scent.
This is his musk, the eau de toilette of Big Dog Clinton. This is when he is the proudest, most gloriously satisfied, appetite-sated.
And yet, because of his bounding - and boundless - enthusiasm as a Mississippi leg hound glowing with rotting stench, he is not done. He must still prance proudly over to the nearest gathering of innocent bystanders and shake.
Shake that wretched swill from his matted coat. Splatter everyone standing around. Eagerly share with everyone his pungent eau de toilette of Big Dog Clinton.
For eight years, America turned over the White House to the Mississippi leg hound from Arkansas. It was an unforgettable experience from which we are still struggling to recover. Many of his victims will never recover.
But if you let him back in the White House for a second romp, that isn't the dog's fault.
• Charles Hurt can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org; follow him on Twitter via @charleshurt.