The Pendragon's Hall

John Edwards and his wife need to both take extra-strength doses of chill pills. Safe in her knowledge that her own disease protects her from anything like having to take responsibility for what she says, Elizabeth Edwards is taking the field against anyone who dares to question her husband. I'm very sorry Edwards' son died in a car accident--that's terrible--and I'm very sorry Mrs. Edwards has cancer and I'm even sorry that her panty-waisted husband has such thin-skin he can only dish out the scorn, not take it himself. But these are the facts: Edwards had brought his son's death into every speech he has given since he first sought the presidential nomination in 2004. Pity can make people do a lot of things, but his pitiful showings in the current presidential polls (where even a lameduck Democratic Congress is averaging about 14%) suggests that perhaps even Democrats can't stomach the idea of voting for a candidate simply to make him feel better about his dead son. Maybe if Edwards really wanted to use his son's death as a platform for social change, he could sue automobile companies and drive their prices up instead of taking out his angst on the medical industry. When Mrs. Edwards was first diagnosed, the internet news was buzzing with how Johnny was going to manfully soldier on despite his wife's illness. Lovely mental image, that: I care so much about being President, my own wife's physical well-being must take second-seat. Fortunately, Elizabeth won't have to go through her illness alone--if polls are any judge, in a couple months her husband will have a lot of time on his hands. Look for the new autobiography Death in the Family: Two Unsuccessful Bids for a Losing Presidential Ticket coming out sometime in the Fall of 2008. Sorry if this hurts your feelings, buddy, but this is politics you've chosen to enter. It's a contact sport. And if you're going to drag your dead son and ill wife and father's poverty into everything you do (not to mention, pay $400 for a haircut, which suggests perhaps you've outgrown your father's simple tastes), you're going to invite some ridicule. Get over it.