Big Heads Don't Cry
By Ron Marr (09/26/04)
It is a daunting task, attempting to write an intellectually astute analysis of John Kerry, the man and his beliefs. The problem...I usually go into a coma within a few seconds of hearing the senator speak. It's that voice. It's those buggy eyes. It's that humongous head. It's frightening.
Unfortunately, the thoughts and message of the contender seem to walk hand in hand with the aforementioned ambiance. The convoluted entree cooked up by campaign Kerry is even more repulsive than its bone-chilling presentation.
When the Kerry monotone oozes from my television, blood begins to dribble from my ears. I picture Thurston Howell III after a six-day gin jag involving full-contact croquet, escargot juggling and industrial strength anti-depressants.
It's that lock-jawed affectation emanating from the pampered pie-hole of an anachronistic critter who no doubt sheds tears over the reality that he was not conceived in the Palace of Versailles.
It is the parlance of bought-and-paid-for bluebloods who believe they are to the manor born, the vernacular custom-tailored for screaming out -- in the bloodlust heat of a decades old badminton feud..."Jeeves...quickly, man! Blot the unsightly perspiration from my unblemished brow!"
However, as an objective journalist in the tradition of Dan Rather and The Weekly World News, the need for veracity via unauthenticated factoids forced me to endure the patented "Kerry Yodel" and listen to his mouthings. I girded my loins and forged a tolerance to that other-worldly drone, that heinous verbal syrup of wet cement and molasses reminiscent of a Banshee on Quaaludes. I did it for readers. I did it for the truth.
In a Kubrickian scene straight out of "A Clockwork Navy Orange...The Sequel," I drank 12 cups of real Colombian coffee laced with chocolate and grain alcohol, hooked myself up to a 110 outlet, and duct-taped both skull and auditory appendages to the TV screen. In such a way was I allowed to soak up the Kerry views, outlooks and goals in one marathon viewing session. Let me tell you, that 2.6 minutes seemed an eternity.
The result, as far as I can determine, is that neither John Kerry, nor I, nor anyone else, has the slightest idea of who the dude is or what he believes. This is not "a man for all seasons." This is more "a man for all seasonings." Salt, pepper, cumin, A-1 sauce, garlic, ketchup, powdered alum, goose blood...if you say you like it, you can bet John Kerry will like it too.
If you say you hate it, he'll vigorously shake that Colossus noggin in enthusiastic agreement, the wobbling equator of his cranial mass causing an atmospheric wave dangerous to both songbirds, commercial airliners and Category Five hurricanes.
Or, at least he'll do that until you're out of earshot. Then he will raise nose, give a hearty French "sniff sniff" and refer to you as an unwashed peasant incapable of passing the Gray Poupon.
It's goes like this. One day Kerry votes to wage war on Iraq, the next he votes against it. One day he tells us he would have sent troops even if he knew there were no weapons of mass destruction, the next he implies we would be better off if Saddam Hussein was still in power.
One day, Kerry waxes poetic about how much he loves firearms, his press people making sure we know he is a crack shot. The next, dependent on his audience, he is ranting and raving that he would make America safe from all guns, instituting the type of Draconian controls found in Communist countries such as Massachusetts.
This Kerry tendency to lift his butler's finger to the wind and change course on a moment's notice is likely a result of his pampered background on the family yacht.
Consistently altering one's course with the breeze might come in handy for Popeye, Captain Crunch or a well-mannered dog with terminal flatulence, however it's not a pattern of behavior leading to great respect either at home or abroad. As with all
who spend inordinate amounts of time on the water, something about Kerry's weaving, wavering, ducking and
dodging smells a bit fishy.
Over and over I have heard the Democrat's main man babble that he has "a plan." There's a plan to make the economy better. There's a plan to either win the war on terrorism or to turn tail, pump our little legs and race post-haste toward the androgynous bosom of Mother France.
Plans, plans, plans. John Kerry has more plans than a Gypsy pavement contractor with multiple personality disorder.. The problem is, we never see these plans or hear the slightest details. We are expected to blindly accept that they exist.
I think, in manner common to all liberals and most middle-management tire store operators, Kerry's plan is to have "very serious" talks with his hand-picked crew of slobbering sycophants, at which time the decision will be made to schedule more "serious talks" at a later date.
When the appointed date arrives, the various yes-men, lackeys and lickspittles will endlessly debate the parliamentary procedures imperative to conceiving a blueprint of something that resembles the pre-planning stages of a potential
hypothesis for a plan.
One day John Kerry is Mr. Sensitive, wishing to wage war in a nice way before surrendering, striving to gain recognition as the living embodiment of Mother Teresa of Calcutta. The next he is Mr. Adolescent Macho, hurling 7th grade insults about the President's mental horsepower, character and ability.
I often wonder - due to her recent propensity to label critics as "idiots" and "scumbags," if Kerry is taking cues from Mother Teresa of Heinz. Mr. Botox is no prize, and the whole thing reminds me of the time the Elephant Man made fun of Barbara Streisand's nose.
It's a case of stones and glass houses, and if Bush ever decides to cut loose with guns blazing, the payback will be a bitch. But he won't. The president is far too classy to drop to the Kerry level.
Instead, he will be satisfied with the public humiliation of his opponent on November 2nd.
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