Goodbye, Rudy….it is a far, far better thing…

Dear Rudy,

In these toxic times and globally-overheated climates of political bloviation which swirl like controversies, cliche-laden, about their intended prey –seeking whom they may devour– let me be the first to offer an apology for my own verbal, nay verbose, excesses regarding this your most recent adventure.

(Forgive me, I seem to be in a “nay” mood –you know, to write a “letter, nay, an epistle” letter.)

It is true that I excoriated you for your 9.11 Shop and Grieve Persona, and for your Hampton Tryster Persona, and your BernardKerikMania (“maybe I made a mistake”) Persona. And for Your Chuckling, your excessive, unrestrained Chuckling. Even your Bomb-Iran-Last-Tuesday Persona paled next to Your Chuckling.

And it was never…Mere Chuckling; it was the Shaking-With-Mirth as you Chuckingly-Dismissed the many attempts to get a serious answer to a serious question, Chuckling.

In a dubious and dispirited field of Republican candidates, in my mind you vastly, nay, Olympically, stood out –it is true– in one distinguished respect: of all those candidates, you alone –again, to my mind– would have been ONE HUNDRED TIMES WORSE than the ever maturity-challenged George W. Bush. As a person. (Other Republican candidates vary from almost-as-bad-as-Bush to markedly-better-than-Bush. But, of course, still not all that great.)

We know that George W. (aged 60?) has all his life been locked, nay shackled, to his Dad –locked in mortal, and limiting, and unrelenting, psychological-competition with Dad. Shackled to Immaturity. A mission, one might say, yet to be accomplished.

The poor guy! The two poor guys! (Not to mention us; We, the Poor People; We the Poor Nation!)

Ever since the night W. climbed –unsteadily-gaited, it has been alleged– out of his car and wanted to go “mano a mano” with a waiting, What-Time-Is-This, Dad, the poor guy has been going….”mano a mano” with Dad.
And –with Mom Barbara holding W’s coat, and Brother Jeb holding Dad’s coat.

My question to you, Rudy, is: What’s your excuse? What was your version? What were/are you fighting? Locked in Mortal Combat With?
I only ask because there HAS to be an explanation.

Take that Marital Career of yours, for example. It was not even the
repetitious details of said career, so much, as the style of it, the apparent breezingly mindless infidelity of it, the laughing (chuckling?)-cavalier-third-party, the very after-thoughtfulness of those announcements. Yes, under you, Crime may have been down in New York City, but Adultery sure was up. And that was only counting you and Bernie Kerik.

Was not that behavior a tip-off to us all –our city, our nation. Watch out. Look out for this guy. He’s not finished, mark my words.

Bomb Iran?
Oops!
(Chuckles. Shakes with mirth.)
Next!

There was the promise –sadly fleeting, as it turned out– of having your wife, the doubtless Redoubtable Judith, sitting in on The Giuliani Cabinet, to your right. Since we are already well on the way to it, how about an administration devoted to Opera? Grand? Comic? Soap? What’s the difference? Why not all three?

But no. We were denied Judith’s talents, and her brilliance: I think it was Maureen Dowd who recently regaled us with an allusion in her column to the Rudy-Judy Love-At-First-Sight meeting.
Where? In a cigar shop!
A CIGAR SHOP!
Think of the brilliance: to choose a Cigar Shop to hang out in. A very lair for the Big Guys. Waiting for your Man, Mr. Mayor — soon to become The Hampton Tryster himself– to Come Along.
Talk about robbing banks ‘cos that’s where the money is. (What was Judy’s opening line, one can only wonder?)

But now, look. Come to nought. (Yet again, A Cigar turns out to be Only A Cigar). A lonely Tuesday night in Florida. A lousy 15% of the vote. Our hero of 9.11 –who on that Fateful Day bravely walked down one corridor, and then bravely down another corridor, and then, bravely, nay, heroically, out a door!!! Out a door! Who of us would have had the courage.
But now, look. Only 15% of the vote. An insult to a hero. Those Florida ingrates. After all you had given them, strategically favoring their sunny (and delegate-rich) State of Florida over all those other little, impoverished, states that went before.

I apologise: what I had foolishly seen as a typically arrogant Rudy gamble, revealing, too-clever-by-half, turned out to have been more-insightful, more just-desserts, than any of us had dared imagine.

“Florida, you had your chance. I, Rudy, am dropping out. Let’s see how much you like them apples. Oranges.”


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