ONE WORD LEADS TO ANOTHER: Good Riddance as Hendon Quits…The High and Mighty Babs Walters Falters…and Our Pathetic Fascination with the Royals Flops.

                                           Good Riddance.

      Gee whiz, moans Capital Fax, which has an abiding tolerance for  Leftist demagogues…in contradistinction to the Right which it despises…the Illinois Senate “won’t be the same without Rickey Hendon.”  No-no, the publication sees no connection between the West Side flash-in-the-pan’s instant resignation and the federal probe underway for state grants he authorized—of course not; it would be mean-spirited and racist, that’s what.  Also that’s the courtesy the publication gives to all its liberal friends (no connection, see, because he seems so calm—just suffering from hypertension). 

        The same salute “won’t be the same without Rickey Hendon” could have been said years earlier by some indiscriminate drinking buddies about the departure of Mississippi’s Theodore Bilbo.  Like Bilbo Hendon had an acid tongue which he used unsparingly after which he would slink over to his victim and apologize.  For no particular purpose other than Bill Brady is a conservative did Hendon assault him before the cameras as “the most racist, idiotic, sexist, homophobic” person he ever knew.  Then he tried to apologize to Brady who deserved none of those epithets….tried to apologize as he featured himself as a character who could say whatever he wanted and be forgiven later.

         It may be good old Hollywood Rickey to Capital Fax because he practiced the bigotry and character assassination lefty hypocrites secretly enjoy as they snuffle their laughter behind cupped hands—language they would faint over near-dead about if it were conveyed to any of their friends who, like Hendon, practiced the art of racial racketeering and slander.  We’ll see how much of that hypertension is caused by hidden concern that the Feds may be on to something.  No-no-no, not our Rickey.

                                One Old Broad to a Neophyte.

          Barbara Walters who is a year younger than this octogenarian has made a very good living screwing up her many-times plasticized face in mock sadness as she conducts her interviews with poor wretches who learn far too late that being interviewed by her is like fondling a venomous cobra: soon the reptile rears up, opens its fangs, emits its slithering tongue and…zap.   She is saccharine-mannered and  seductive in approach having learned all these falsities by blowing air-kisses at celebrities at her old man’s New York saloon, “The Latin Quarter.”   She does this just before she goes into her adder pose.    

        The other day Baba did her act, rearing up, gesticulated her bottom with mock sympathy, opened her thin-lipped uncompromising mouth and prepared to gobble Jessica Hahn alive when…zap!...Hahn did her first.   Jessica was the 21-year-old church secretary who tumbled into bed with the televangelist Jim Bakker one look at whose face would tell  you he’s a religious racketeering phony.  But first things first.  Baba had already made big bucks on her salacious life in a best-seller autobiography and was not in the mood to re-do something she had already been paid for.  Many  years as a professional teaches you that.  Professional what?   

        You fill in the appropriate word after “professional.”  Anyhow, Baba was not so professional that she could force herself to marry that gargoyle Alan Greenspan—which says sufficient for her.  

        Back to our story.

      So just as  Baba was poised for the kill, beseeching Jessica to open up about her adulterous experience when Jessica got her first….interrupting the heavily rouged, pancake smothered aged sob-sister by inviting Baba to talk about her many adulteries with Massachusetts senator Ed Brooke first.

        Naughty-naughty: mustn’t do.   Big media exulted on how quick Baba was in reposte—saying “no, dear, this is about you, not me!”  Gawd that was a clever line wasn’t it?   Forty years of television will lead you to think of that answer on the spot.  But nevertheless I cheered for Jessica.  They’re the same both of them—chippies. 

                            The Royal Pain (You Identify the Location).
      For one half of a shack-up His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Philip, Louis of Wales, Royal Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter is well on the way to achieving consequential boredom, a fop who has been created out of whole cloth by pathetic U.S. fascination with royal blood—not withstanding that they are so overbred with each other they have produced generations of dunces.  Kate Middleton will of course wear white in memory of the virginity she gave this lout a decade earlier.
       Indeed, there will come a time…and for me it has already arrived…  when none of us will be able to tell who from whom.   Now who’s Prince Philip again?  Oh yes he’s the guy who’s married to Queen Elizabeth and who walks beside her with his arms folded neatly behind him, his hands clasping his behind.
      Refresh me, who’s Prince Charles again?  He’s William’s father, the Prince of Wales, who married that nice girl Diana and made life a living hell for her because he was in love with that ugly old trollop Camilla Parker Bowles whose face  looks like a horse stepped on it, she then married to someone else,  whom he wrote affectionate little notes to all during his marriage saying he would like to be embedded in her womb…leading Diana to distraction and numerous social liaisons  where with one she died in a car crash precipitated by a drunken chauffeur,  having been pursued by the paparazzi.   In short the one reason his 84-year-old mother keeps breathing so as to prevent this moral leper from becoming king.   It is my fervent hope this retard…as Rahm would say…goes swiftly into the night before the old girl.  God grant me this wish.
        Okay, I got that straight.  Now who’s Andrew?  He’s the second son of Elizabeth—the Duke of York who married and divorced…you know…Fergie who split understandably after she was caught having her toes nuzzled by a lover, the russet-haired bohemian who as an insatiable consumer of ice cream and cake was hired by Weight Watchers to hustle its course…and who was caught getting paid by a lobbyist to get him in touch with Andrew—after which her name has been justifiably stricken by the masters of court protocol.
       One thing you’ve got to know is that if Andrew dies without marrying again, the title Duke of York will vanish for a time.  Lord, if all of them would only vanish!   What is there about Americans who feel their lives are incomplete unless they learn about these rascal liberal maleducated wastrels?  The only good thing they did….and I imagine it was done collectively…was to nix our own royal, mysterious Half Breed African Prince to William and Kate’s wedding—suffice it for returning the bronze bust of Winston Churchill and his illiterate veto of the invitation to Queen Elizabeth to the ceremony for D-Day failing to appreciate that of all world leaders in power on June 6, 1944 she alone survives.
          This ignoble breach shows that this fraud we have in the White House is really the ignoramus we thought he was  all along…until we were shushed by that namby pamby Michael Medved who says we ought not to describe Obama in terms of what we know he is. In summary, you see that by writing this I have come to the conclusion that the English nobility have retained some class after all for recognizing as does Dinesh D’Souza that the secret of Obama’s radicalism is that he is an anti-colonial throwback to his father Barack, Sr.   
        We really ought to get rid of Medved too you know—but that’s a subject for another time.