Published Tuesday, August 26, 2008 2:44 PM
Updated Tuesday, August 26, 2008 2:45 PM
Now, I wouldn’t trust him to pluck a chicken.
One thing about us Tar Heels (he’s a transplant, but we claim him): We stick together. You might be so crazy you eat tin cans, but if you’re sincere we support you.
I put John Edwards up there in my personal pantheon of North Carolina heroes, alongside Michael Jordan, Andy Griffith and Thomas Wolfe.
(No offense to Elizabeth Dole, Catfish Hunter, David Brinkley, Roman Gabriel, O. Henry, Presidents Johnson and Jackson, Reynolds Price, Randy Travis, Billy Graham, Ava Gardner, Sam Ervin, Carl Sandburg or the Squirrel Nut Zippers.)
Old JE done good, as we say in the Piedmont. From mill village to Millionaires’ Row, he was a sight to see.
I followed his rise and glory. I bought his book, “Four Trials.” (Granted, it was $2 at Goodwill, but still.)
I told friends, “He cares about the working man.” I bragged about his Kennedy-esque charisma. I said he was smart enough to marry a smarter woman. I loved me some John Edwards.
Now, I just want to catch him on the street. It would be a beatin’, I promise you.
I’d grab his 90-dollar tie and snatch him out of that custom shirt. Then I’d drag him around by that $400 haircut. I might bite his ear off, I don’t know.
You understand what I’m talking about. Bad enough to betray your wife of 30 years, but after burying a child and a cancer diagnosis? That goes beyond the pale.
Then he denied it. Over and over again. And -- I’m gulping for air here -- he had the brass-plated gall to use her stage 4 recurrence as a symbol of his commitment to serve the American people. It was her wish for him to carry on, he said. (She concurred, but what was she supposed to say? “My husband had an affair after my hair fell out and I wouldn’t elect him dogcatcher”?)
As of Aug. 18, John Edwards is saying his lover’s baby isn’t his. If it’s not I will eat a catfish raw, with skin and whiskers.
This jerk is a wealthy man. So are many of his backers. You can bet Rielle Hunter (aka Lisa Druck) and Andrew Young (aka Biggest Patsy of the 21st Century), are being paid well for their parts in this sorry saga.
I’m so mad my eyeballs are about to pop, but it‘s not because I’m a diehard Democrat. I thought Bill Clinton was an a--, just like my father thought Wilbur Mills was an idiot. (No-one called JFK out because who knew? The myth of Camelot endured for another 20 years.)
Maybe I shouldn’t have read Elizabeth’s book, the one where she discussed losing their son, fighting an extra 20 pounds and oh, yeah, breast cancer. If you were on the fence about her husband and happened to read her book, you’d vote for him.
Until now, that is.
John Edwards, enjoy your 28,000 square-foot mansion. Because when you leave it, your behind is mine.
Julie R. Smith, who takes it personally when idols fall, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.