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by Rick Walton
Recent revelations about John F. Kennedy suggest that rather than being the Prince of Camelot, he was the Rancid Tuna of the Apocalypse. Some have even suggested that if Lee Harvey Oswald hadn't plugged him, Mother Teresa would have, and with the Vatican's blessing.
I'm always a little suspicious of these, "They're Already Dead, But Kick 'Em Again" authors. I take everything they say with a pound of salt. For example, I honestly don't believe Kennedy ever pulled the wings off of baby chickens. But then again, I never knew him personally.
So I wanted to make sure. I telephoned the author of one of the better-selling "Kick Kennedy" books. I figured it would be easy for him to stretch the truth in his book, but he couldn't possibly lie to my face.
"Hello," I said when the party in question picked up the phone at his end. "Is this Plifford Snootches, author of Kennedy Killed Your Mother?"
"Yes it is," he said. "Who's this? Geraldo? I told you, six shows is all I'll do for you. Now go away or I'll tell Donahue your bugging his..."
"No, I'm not Geraldo. I'm just an interested reader who wants to find out the truth about this Kennedy affair."
"To which affair are you referring? According to my calculations he had 642,000."
"That many? That's incredible!"
"Yeah, and that's just while he was in the White House. I'm not counting the one's he had when he traveled. Nor am I counting the ones involving baby chickens. Is that all you wanted to know?"
"Not really. I wanted to know if everything in your book is the truth?"
"Of course it's the truth. Have I ever lied to you?"
"Not that I recollect. But weren't you a bit cruel to Mr. Kennedy? After all, he is still loved by billions?"
"Cruel! No, I was as kind as your grandmother. Kennedy was even worse than I painted him in my book."
"How could he be worse?
"Easy. You know the Great Chicago Fire?"
"Yeah, I read about it somewhere."
"Well, Kennedy started it. He was playing with matches."
"But that was over a hundred years ago. Kennedy wasn't even born yet."
"He didn't need to be. He had the time machine his daddy stole from Elvis."
"Now wait a minute, this is sounding silly."
"Sometimes the truth is sillier than fiction. Daddy Kennedy was head of RCA, who did Elvis's records, and when he found out that an eccentric fan from the British moors had given Kennedy a time machine, well, Daddy Kennedy just stole it. Stranger things have happened, you know."
"Not in my town."
"So anyway, Kennedy was allowed to travel wherever he wanted. Attila the Hun is Kennedy's illegitimate son. Bet you didn't know that."
"Wow, this is interesting. Are you sure it's true?"
"You bet. Elvis scribbled it all on his bathroom mirror just after Kennedy shot him in the legs. The King bled to death before he was found."
"Incredible."
"And then there's the fall of Rome. Kennedy did that. And Pompeii, and the Stock Market Crash of 1929, and the Civil War. Kennedy was responsible for all of these. And you know those shoes you lost back in 1975?"
"You don't mean..."
"Yup, Kennedy wore them to his grave."
"Why, that beast! Those shoes were a present from my poor mama, may she rest in peace."
"Of course she'd still be alive today if Kennedy hadn't thrown her in with that pit bull."
"That was HIM! That fiend! Just let me at him! I'll rip him into coleslaw."
"Can't. He's dead, you know."
"That's right. But wait a minute, if he traveled into the future, how come he didn't see what was going to happen to him?"
"Sunglasses. He traveled incognito, and his sunglasses were too dark for him to read with. And of course he was too busy causing trouble to catch one of the 7 million Kennedy specials that have been on since his death."
"Lucky him. And all this is in your book?"
"Nope. I'm saving it for my next book, Kennedy Killed the Dinosaurs, which will turn what's left of the Kennedy myth into a fine, spicy pate."
"When's your next book coming out?"
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