(FORTUNE Magazine) – Don't even think about it. Don't even think about Monica Lewinsky or Kathleen Willey. There are schools to wire, the IRS to reform, the government to reorganize. And there's the earth to televise. The TV guys are thinking: All Monica, all the time. I'm thinking: All earth, all the time.

Don't even think about it. Don't even think about what went on between Bill and Monica in the next room, or what happened between Bill and Kathleen. The Oval Office is for negotiations with the Republicans and meetings with the Russians. (And--I can't repress the thought--phone calls to donors.) But then again, I'm the guy who's into global warming, and he's the guy with hot pants.

Don't even think about becoming president, at least before noon on Jan. 20, 2001. Don't even think about what would happen if they impeached him, or if he resigned. Sure, the Republicans and Ken Starr are talking. And Newt and Henry Hyde are figuring out how to handle impeachment hearings. And the Democrats are still furioso with Clinton for stealing the Republicans' agenda on the budget and taking on the unions on fast track. The boy may end up paying for his sins on the Hill yet.

Don't even think about how good this whole sex mess is for me. Don't even think about how my boy-scout image suddenly isn't such a big problem anymore. All the smart people tell me: Turn your deficits into assets. Well, the Treasury isn't the only place the deficits have disappeared suddenly. I'm in Surplus City. People are going to want a serious president next time. No distractions, no dames. Maybe I don't have a scintillating personality. But people aren't going to want a president with so much personality next time. This is the meeting of the moment and the man.

Don't even think about the campaign yet. Don't even think about how no one's quoting Dick Gephardt anymore. The guy's disappeared. (Don't gloat.) People are talking about the Clinton succession, and you never even hear his name. Bob Kerrey's dead in this atmosphere; no one's going to buy a bachelor act in the White House right now. (Don't gloat.) John Kerry? I went to that breakfast roast in Massachusetts (12 electoral votes) a few weeks ago and blew him away. Put it this way: Anybody less funny than me is in serious trouble. He's a goner. (Don't gloat.)

Don't even think about how Clinton's problems are wiping my problems away. Don't even think about how innocent a meeting with buddhist nuns looks in comparison with Clinton's women. And am I the only one who notices that all that campaign-

finance rubbish from last year has suddenly evaporated like dew on tobacco leaves? Dirty money looks a whole lot cleaner when the presidency is mucked up with dirty jokes.

Don't even think about how all Clinton's troubles have taken a load off my back. Don't even think about how there's a spring in my step when I campaign with Barbara Kennelly in Connecticut (eight electoral votes) or when I board the plane--four times in a six-week period!--for California (52 electoral votes). Suddenly I enjoy politics. (Don't get carried away with this, Al baby, and keep a tight rein on those seven people we're going to hire for that new political-action committee. Need to be dignified.)

Don't even think about veering off-message. Don't even think about saying that I'm ready in case the moment comes. Repeat after me: The president is my friend, and I believe him. He is, and I do. But if it happens, I'm not going to be like Harry Truman, with the sun and the moon and the stars falling in on me. I'll be ready. (But I'll be ready with a sun-and-the-moon-and-the-stars quote, too.)

Don't even think about all that. Not even a little.

DAVID SHRIBMAN is the Washington bureau chief of the Boston Globe and a Pulitzer Prize-winning political reporter.