You may remember these once snappy youths, Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. and Patrick Kennedy.
When I was a kid, my folks had a Nutone kitchen fan, which was permanently installed over the stove to whisk the byproducts of mother's cooking, the heat and the noxious vapors, from inside the house to the exterior.
Today, the ceaseless drumming of the drive-by media and their caustic announcers--refuse to call these rank Democratic trash talking puppeteers journalists--offer us no such means to exhaust their diatribes as they extol the latest doings of the wondrous Kennedy Boys.
Not too long ago, in fact about a month back, Mr. Patrick was involved in a fracas in D.C., where he might have killed himself, a cop, or another motorist as a result of his madcap decision to operate his automobile while under the influence of either a combination of prescription drugs or with these same drugs and the heady addition of a few belts of distilled spirits.
I am not one to eschew the use of strong drink, however I do recommend that toddies, especially those of a late night variety, should not in any way shape or form be mixed with the likes of ambien, which apparently alter your state, Rhode Island or otherwise.
and never should this mind bending mental cocktail be mixed with Phenergan, a drug advertised on an anti-hangover website, which render you, when mixed with the likes of ambien, walking wounded, or worse, the terror from beyond space.
The wages of drunk driving can be death--of one's career, of passengers, pedestrians, the innocent, you and diverse others.
But after the obligatory dry out, Mr. Patches Kennedy has returned, hugging everybody, with smarm all around, and now demands that he be treated like any african-american from anacostia, though knowing, all the time, behind the Masque of the Freshly Sober and newly advised, that he won't be.
So be it. He is a new man until the next mix up, with the follow on pain, suffering and smash of ego. But whatever happens to Mr. Patrick Kennedy, he will return to Rhode Island, Little Rhodie, contrite, where he will be welcomed with open arms by a Democratic voting public who will never give a thought to the votes cast and the time spent on their dime by a man who has claimed all the grave mental and physical disabilities he has had time to both remember, limn and list. a man in full.
Whereas, Robert Kennedy, Jr., has recently penned an epic poem to the theft of the 2004 election by the Republicans, the same party of the pathetic George Bush, the man who can't shoot straight, the worst President in our history, a small man with a cranium bereft of the everyday brilliance which mark the foot slapping Mr. Gore and the grave monotonic Mr. Kerry as true and valuable Democratic übermensch akin to those who occupy the highest realms of Dianetics--where people are said to move material things with the power of Will, George or Good.
But a man, just the same, who directed this vast electoral theft from the centrality of the White House war room, while his serried minions carried out his every wish like hypnotized automatons--those Cheneys, Roves, and the like.
Indeed, Mr. Robert Kennedy, to show that he has grasped the form and figure of a true academic--if not the tweeds, deerslayer, and pipe--has liberally salted his grand opus with footnotes, the mark of a true genius. and by their use, he has laid the granite underpinning for proving that the party of Lincoln the liberator and Bush the dunce literally stole not only the election but the shirts off the backs of the voters in Ohio and the shoes off the feet of the casters in the Mississippi.
So great was this nationwide Republican theft, and its associated multi-layered conspiracies--which is all spelled out in the small print of the foot notes, not foot prints, and included all levels of the military, the local police and ambulance services--that it completely negated the tragi-comic Democratic clock-work counting of the dead, their multiple voting, packing of the ballot boxes, the broken voting machines, the poor electoral lists, and the ongoing travesties of the Motor-Voter Bill. It also failed to enumerate the puncturing of tires to insure that Republicans couldn't vote and the, hush now, use of crack cocaine to reward those who filled registration sheets with fantastic gibberish and cocked up names in Ohio.
Mr. Kennedy, in a nod to fairness in his "report," also left out the numerous arrests and sentences meted out to sundry Democrats for their mal--and misfeasance in this same election. But the inclusion of these wearisome statistics would only serve to "skew" the honesty of the clear cut "facts" he chose to attach.
But Mr. Robert is no shy violet, and once he has bitten into pattern that no one else, including the seers of his own party and their activists, can see, he is not about to let his theory lay dormant. It must be told in story and song for all to see and hear, with multi-faceted footnotes for choruses, wild sweeping diagrammatic attributions for stanzas, and CNN announcers for hopped-up barkers.
So Mr. Robert Kennedy, Jr., is off on a new crusade to show the world that an election, for a change in our history, was stolen by Republicans and not the Democrats, thus cheating Mr. John Kerry, a rarified fellow stablemate of impeccable ancestry, out of a job and the world out of a liberal leader in the mold of Mohandas K. Ghandi and Kofi annan--the latter a noted liberal manager, honest broker, Kennedy apologist and immigration supporter.
No comment has yet been heard from Mr. J. Bertrand aristide, as he now likens himself, a one time close family friend, front man, and reputation auctioneer.
ah, the Kennedy Boys.
One, an amnesiac from Rhode Island, who claims to be sober, wants to be treated like a minority resident of Maryland, while the other one, who is sober, or so he says, is laying claim to newly discovered, though stolen, archipelago with freshly minted academic credentials.
It's beastly out there for a Kennedy in this 666 world.
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