DURST: Spying on Yourself

How often have I said this. You can't make stuff up like this. You know what? I'm right.In Boston, attempting to unseat 37 year Democratic Senate veteran Edward Kennedy, a Republican has flung the first hot mud of the race, and it turns out, he could have done it in a locked closet with a newspaper boomerang since the target was he.In response to partisan attack, Jack E. Robinson III issued an 11 page report detailing all the dirt he and his staff could dig up on himself. And you got to admit, the guy did a pretty damn good job. C'mon, 11 pages. Even double spaced, we're talking at least the appearance of thorough here. Nearing CIA foreign dictator application status. I bet even Pamela Anderson would have perked up at the disclosure, provided someone in her retinue read.The sensation was sufficient, suffice to say had Mr. Robinson been any other person on the planet he could sue for slander. "Where have you gone Henry Kissinger? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Koo kooka choo." In the near scandalous account of a misspent, well, youth and adulthood, the wealthy business executive alludes to a relationship culminating in a restraining order, flunking the bar three times, a drunk driving charge, a court upheld accusation of plagiarism and a propensity to thaw individual Cornish Game Hens in what one James Beard award winning Pan Asian chef has labeled a "hygienically suspect procedure."You might think calling this mind boggling paradigm of preemptive public self flagellation "political suicide" is like suggesting the results of the McWorm sandwich rollout were mixed. But don't forget; he's running against Teddy. A man to whom 11 pages doesn't even cover the court documents reproduction service segment of the acknowledgements section.Everybody says they wish all politicians would roll out their sins on a parchment, but what about the law of un intended results. Does anybody really want Bob Woodward covering the Orioles beat?"Smirking silently but walking purposefully away from the commotion surrounding Albert Belle's third cleat-to-the-head prank of the day, Hargrove glimpsed Ripken kick a clump of dirt over the third base line and wondered to himself: 'How many more clumps of dirt does he have left in him? What happens when the clumps become wads and then just sprays of dirt, and finally a single grain of sand? Will he know? Will I know? If I don't know, will Tom Clancy tell me? Where's my chaw?'"Will Durst was just at spring training. Sorry for the inadvertent reference.

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