Policoff to Chris Mathews; back at ya;;;;;

[Phil Dragoo]

"I felt this thrill going up my leg."


Ground control to Major Chris: take your protein pill and put your helmet on.


You say this man Oswald went to the Soviet Union because he thought he wanted to live under small-c communism in your phrasing;


that he returned and fell for that fellow Castro. That he, Mr. Oswald, was of the left wing.


Do you drink, Mr. Matthews. Do you pause between hyperventilations to allow your synapses to clear, to be overtaken by your words.


There was another fellow Webster in that Soviet Union migration. Do you quite follow.


There was a dance to the Castro beat, Mr. Matthews. The bongos, the castanets, a Phillips, a Hunt, even a Buckley.


And who was that man John Hurt whom this leftist L.H. Oswald in vain on his last night alive on planet earth sought in quiet desperation to contact.


You who felt a thrill up your leg.


For the tool of the apparatus which struck John.


Knolls are interchangeable with boarding house windows, Mr. Matthews; with hotel pantry shadows, with a thousand darkened corners where television lights will never shine.


Trolls, and tools, and gnomes, and shills such as your ladyship, however, are the sine qua non for the Mockingbird Waltz.


Rave on against the dying of your wheeze in which silence you might hear Tip O'Neill's account of Kenny O'Donnell's confession and Dave Powers' concurrence. O the crazies are all around you to be sure.