30-08-2010, 02:50 PM
Phil Dragoo Wrote:Lyndon Johnson strutted and fretted his hour upon the stage—then the vaudevillian hook whisked him away.
He served his purpose. His ambition and animus were used in the vortex of the coup; come the ides of March 1968 and he brushed aside the cup.
Walter Cronkite pronounced the Tet Offensive a victory for Team North; Lyndon whined, “Well, we have lost Walter Cronkite; we have lost the war.”
Cronkite, too, was useful.
Lyndon went off to his ranch to die of a heart attack, between Edgar's heart attack, and Richard's “effective noon tomorrow,” leaving Gerry Base-of-the-back-of-the-neck to blunder along, until James, and James' Stansfield's Halloween 1977 Trick-or-treat could earn his master's ouster at the hand of Ronald, who very nearly bought the farm thanks to George's Hinkley-in-the-Rye.
Nice, nice, very nice.
So many people in the same device.
But it was not written by Lyndon. He was cast within it.
He strutted. He fretted. Clutching his chest, he went down like a pole-axed ox.
We shall remember him fondly, as an ox. Or, in the alternative, an ass.
Putting the ass in assassination.
But the show went on before him, beside him, and after him. The show always goes on.
Perceptive.