[img]1|left|||no_popup[/img] Reasonable persons can disagree over whether President Obama, in his State of My Union address, was fair or showed a now typical lack of class in calling out the Supreme Court over a recent decision when most of the justices were seated mere feet from him.
To criticize them so crudely in that noble setting was virtually unprecedented.
Most hosts are better disciplined. They don’t aim a dart between a guest’s eyes, and then say, “Thank you for coming over tonight.”
We have learned in the past year that the gaping absence of inherent class and rudimentary maturity are two of the tallest distinctions between President Bush and his successor.
Lest I digress:
To return to my opening point about the acceptability of disagreement:
You and I probably would concur that John Edwards, two-time Presidential candidate and most recently a one-term U.S. senator from North Carolina, is one of the most recognizable figures in America.
Increasingly over the last three or four years, Mr. Edwards’ private life, which was supposed to be as slick as his permanent hair, instead has been roiling in the gutter.
It obviously takes a man of towering compassion and mammoth imagination to impregnate his frequently-denied girlfriend while every good American knows that his overweight and less attractive wife is dying, pretty publicly, of cancer.
Wow. That is a drama a screenwriter would kill to copy. The howling pathos to be squeezed out of this baby would make your ears ring and your feet perspire.
What a cad, you say.
Just like “76 Trombones,” Sen. John Edwards came right here to Culver City when he was running for the Presidential nomination.
Standing before an adoring crowd at the jammed Senior Center, he reached into his sweaty hip pocket and withdrew his standard “Two Americas” speech, one for the rich, whom liberals publicly hate and privately embrace, and one for the wretches.
Turns out, Slick Edwards was no more transparent than Swish Obama. Slick was living in Two Americas, too, one for campaign purposes with good ol’ Aunt Bulgy, his wife Elizabeth, while secretly rendezvousing with a dame colorfully and most recently named Rielle.
Slick practically lived on roller skates. After speeches, like the one at the Senior Center, he would skate over to Sexy Rielle’s motel room for a course in the biology classes she skipped in high school.
Eventually, boys and girls, teacher Slick’s rudimentary classes paid off because, as all good ob-gyns and Republicans and Democrats now know, Slick and Sexy Rielle either made a baby or conspired to create the first virgin birth of this century.
How would you have known this?
By visiting your favorite Ralphs or Von’s and checking the tabloid rack by the check-out counter, which is out-of-bounds for the eyes of respectable people the same way 99-Center Stores were, in the beginning, for respectable liberals.
You would not have learned of Slick’s abominable indiscretions by culling your favorite daily newspaper because Slick, before lying down to play, had the good sense to post a sign on the door:
“Democrat at Work Inside. For Heaven’s Sake (and my marriage), Do Not Disturb.”
Two years ago, on the 27th of February, the darnedest thing happened. Mr. Edwards’ girlfriend gave birth to his baby. Can’t be, said Mr. Edwards. Every liberal newspaper in America nodded in agreement — can’t be. He is a Democrat. It is a filthy Republican lie.
Later, the National Enquirer, a tabloid, reported, authoritatively, Mr. Edwards, spouse of a dying but arguably attractive woman, had not only fathered the child but had tiptoed into the Beverly Hilton — little more than walking distance from this newspaper — to visit his rebuttal to population explosion partisans.
Downtown at the Los Angeles Times, nary a boy or girl reporter was curious because Mr. Edwards was a Democrat.
After nearly drowning in a tsunami of denials, Mr. Edwards admitted the baby was his. Magnifying glasses stock soared in the coming days as, on rhetorical tippy toes, The New York Times and the Los Angeles Times, broke out of their Whores for Obama stance long enough to clear their throats, cough, gasp for air, and quietly acknowledge, um, yes, Slick Admits He Is the Pop.
Last week, the gilded gentleman known as Slick Edwards was thrown out of his house, onto his haircut, by his angry wife, as Slick’s love child got ready for his second birthday.
Elizabeth, aka Aunt Bulgy, said their 32-year marriage was over.
The New York Times and the Los Angeles went practically berserk, generously devoting 7 paragraphs and 3 paragraphs, respectively.
If you are going to fool around, make sure the media knows you are a Democrat, pal, and they probably will even join you in spitting n your wife.
