When the last poor suffering bastard staggered home from Vietnam, and when Nixon was safely locked in a subterranean vault of carbon steel alloy 1090 somewhere wet and deep in Orange County, and with Jimmy Carter safely buttoned up in his sweater-vest inside the White House, many of us old hippie-activist-malcontented-socialists wiped our salty brows, went whew, doggies! and said, Goddamn, I'm glad that's over with.
You see, we thought we'd checked everything off The List and answered all the questions: Can black Americans vote without getting their necks stretched? Ans: Yes. Are undeclared wars illegal? Ans: Yes. Should the FBI, CIA, NSA, DIA, and/or the AFSA spy on, secretly photograph, intercept mail, and wiretap regular Americans? Ans: No. Are American women allowed to make decisions about their own bodies? Ans: Yes. Etc., etc.
Well, you get the idea. It was quite a List, but we thought we'd covered the bases, done what we had to, and things would stay put for a while. So with a quiet sigh, we turned back to our own little lives, finished our degrees, came back from Canada, got socially meaningful jobs and had naturally-birthed kiddies. Now, you have to remember we were very young when we first made The List and there were some questions we didn't ask, like: Is there a cure for human stupidity? (Ans: No). So it's not surprising to me, since we're currently in The Middle Ages, that there are well-organized dopes who want to teach creationism in the schools, who, in fact, will fight like pit bulls to teach their little dopettes how cavemen once rode upon dinosaurs, that women have one less rib than men, and how certain lucky-ducks will be sucked skyward come The Rapture.
What does amaze me is John Edwards' Love Child.
I confess. I spent a half hour today Googling (and goggling) John Edwards' Love Child and got pages of hits. This kid, whoever he is, is listed no other way: not as Little Googan or Johnny's bastard or Baby Doe. He is, just simply, John Edwards' Love Child. What I'm astounded by is the extended-pinky prissiness of it all. I can barely watch commercial television without burying my face in the sofa cushions during ads flacking erectile dysfunction pills, yeast infection products, heavy-flow tampons, adult diapers, or that smartly dressed couple bragging about their brand of love-lube. There are photos online I skip right over, not wanting to be treated to yet another shot of Lindsay's, Brittney's, or Paris' well-documented vadge. And with all this, the news media is talking about ::wink wink:: John Edwards' Love Child?
Not only does John Edwards have this Love Child, he's been snapped fleeing like some shy deflowered maiden from photographers. I'd like to think, given these pig-ignorant times, John Edwards could face down the paparazzi with a snarl and say, Yeah. I cheated on my brave, intelligent, cancer-ridden wife to get some poon on the side. Yeah, I got a kid out of it. And, yeah, we call him Skeezix. What's it to ya?
I'd really like to think that.
Otherwise, what's the upside to a dissolute age?
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