Forget steak and cigars at the Palm. The real players meet at Jon's place. And they're playing Monopoly.

The past six months I had been hosting our soirees. The crowd: A-list. The game: Scrabble. The rules: BYOB. The core group -- Clinton, Dole, Gingrich, Gore and I -- would gather in my run-down one-bedroom above the Georgetown Domino's and, with little cordial foreplay, we'd get right down to the game.

On this night, Gingrich begged off. Apparently his VCR was on the fritz and he hates to miss Friends and The Single Guy. Since Thurmond was sitting in for Gingrich, we decided to scrap Scrabble. The game's recommended for ages 8 to 80 and we didn't want to chance it. After much partisan debate, I cast the deciding vote for Monopoly.

8:07 P.M. Gore wins the die toss and gets to select his playing piece first.

GORE: I'll be the iron.

DOLE: Are you shitting me? The iron?

CLINTON: Al, nobody's ever hankering to be the iron.

GORE: I like the iron, it reminds me I told Tipper I'd pick up her dress from the dry cleaners tomorrow.

CLINTON: Pick another piece, Al.

GORE: (pouting) No. You never let me make decisions. Nothing I do is good enough... You're not the president of the game, you know.

CLINTON: Fine, be the iron.

GORE: (happy again) Thank you, sir.

DOLE: Pussy.

CLINTON: I'll take the destroyer.

DOLE: (mumbling) Not during Vietnam.

CLINTON: What?

DOLE: Bob Dole wants a solid piece. Bob Dole wants a piece that represents the working man. Bob Dole...

CLINTON: Just choose one.

DOLE: I'll be the shoe.

STEWART: Strom, what are you?

THURMOND: (licking the thimble) Gleeple florp bimply--

STEWART: Strom, what do you want to be? The thimble?

THURMOND: (happily) Poodly cheese.

CLINTON: Jon, how's about you be the banker, buddy?

STEWART: Why do I have to be the banker?

CLINTON: Oh, c'mon, man! Just keep track of the money. It's confusing... you know, for people like us... help me, guys.

GORE: Some of us are handier with that kind of thing. Like Greenspan.

DOLE: Or Volcker.

STEWART: What are you suggesting?

THURMOND: Flozzen beermp Jew.

STEWART: (sighing) Fine.

9:53 P.M. The game is relatively even, with Dole slightly in the lead financially due to his shrewd takeover of the utilities.

DOLE: (singing to himself) "I like big butts, I can't deny..."

CLINTON: (rolling) Hot damn, double fours!

THURMOND: (excited) Yahtzeeeee!!!

DOLE: (still singing softly) "White girls got them skinny butts..."

CLINTON: (counting eight spaces using his finger) One, two, three... four...

STEWART: Bob, what are you doing?

DOLE: Bob Dole is singing "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot.

CLINTON: Hell, Bob, we should jam sometime.

GORE: Hey! Strom just ate my hotel!

THURMOND: (happily) Arfle... burp.

11:46 P.M. Clinton and Dole control most of the board, but Dole is slightly in the lead with the Southern-state avenues. Gore, nearly bankrupt, is on the phone.

GORE: Please, buttercup, you promised I could stay till the game ended.

CLINTON and DOLE: (singing) "Been spending most our lives livin' in a gangsta's par-a-diiiiiisssse!"

DOLE: (high-fiving Clinton) God bless Coolio!!

GORE: I swear, sweetness, it's not a party. That was Bob and Sir singing.

DOLE: (to me) Your turn. Roll the dice, home slice! (Dole and Clinton double over laughing)

CLINTON: You kill me, man!

I get up to buzz in Colin Powell.

GORE: It's not strippers, sweetums, it's just General Powell.

POWELL: Good evening, gentlemen.

CLINTON: Colin, you are my man.

DOLE: Bob Dole wants to know, what is up?

POWELL: Jon, you didn't tell me these guys were going to be here.

STEWART: Sorry.

DOLE: Colin, settle an argument for us.

CLINTON: Is "Gangsta's Paradise" based on a Stevie Wonder song?

DOLE: I say it isn't. Coolio doesn't sample, does he?

GORE: ... No, you hang up... No you...

POWELL: I don't know. Listen, Jon, I've got to be up early tomorrow.

STEWART: Sure, I understand.

GORE: No, you... Okay, I'm hanging up now.

General Powell gets up to leave. Thurmond sees him for the first time.

THURMOND: (angry) I thought I told you to stay with the car.

POWELL: (sadly) I'll call you, Jon.

STEWART: Okay... sorry.

GORE: (giggling) Are you still there? You are? Okay, hang up.

1:11 A.M. Dole and Clinton are still ahead. Pennsylvania Avenue is the only unclaimed piece of property on the board, and interest in the game begins to wane.

CLINTON: Okay. Bob -- Sandra Day O'Conner or Barbara Boxer?

DOLE: Bob Dole wants Boxer. Boxer makes Bob Dole's pants tighter.

STEWART: Guys, do we have to play the "If you had to sleep with one of them" game?

DOLE: Whatsa matter, Stewart? You light in the slippers? Eat with the wrong fork?

CLINTON: Yeah... whaddarya... um... gay?

There is an uncomfortable silence.

DOLE: Good one, dipshit.

STEWART: What the hell are you guys talking--

GORE: Check this out! The Monopoly income tax calls for $200 or 10 percent of your income.

DOLE: Hey that's a choice of a set amount or a flat rate.

CLINTON: That would really simplify our cumbersome tax codes.

DOLE: We could give taxpayers earning more than $200,000 a year a set tax of $20,000 and those earning less, the 10% rate. We'd save them a bundle.

CLINTON: And we could make up the shortfall by trimming Federal excesses and running the remaining bureaus and agencies more efficiently. (solemnly) We should work together to make this happen...

DOLE: Yeah.

Clinton and Dole's eyes meet; they burst out laughing.

CLINTON: (doubled over) You kill me, man... (imitating Dole) "We'd save them a bundle..." Oooooh man.

DOLE: (tears running down his face) What about you? (imitating Clinton) "Work together" --hee hee-- "to make... ha... this happen..."

Clinton and Dole roll onto the floor in hysterics.

3:07 A.M. A police siren wails in the distance. Thurmond, believing we are under attack, flips the board and runs out of the apartment. After a brief search, we find him huddling in the backyard shed. Using Cheetos, we lure him back inside, E.T.-style. The game is called.