WHAT a wimp.
Even by the exceedingly high standards of scandal pioneered by the House of Kennedy, Rep. Patrick is no JFK.
When he played bumper cars in our nation’s capital at 3 in the morning, appearing intoxicated – but later insisting he was just on pills – the shnook was alone.
That is, except for his pathetic bag of excuses and his famous name, which still holds the power to get a guy out of a jam without a Breathalyzer or a body-cavity search.
Let’s recap.
Fresh from his Thursday morning crackup, Patrick issued this statement: “I consumed no alcohol prior to the incident.”
Yesterday, he changed his tone. “I simply do not remember getting out of bed,” he said.
Kennedys, you see, never pay for their criminal recklessness. Now that Patrick has declared himself the victim, he’s off limits.
“I struggle every day with this disease,” he said.
Suckers!
Well, I guess we got lucky. This guy is such a loser that no babe would ride with him. Until now, booze, drugs and females were as inseparable on any cursed Kennedy evening as Teddy, a bottle and a missed bridge.
There was no Marilyn in Patrick’s car. Hell, no Paris Hilton. I guess after Teddy’s fateful drive into the drink at Chappaquiddick, sane women have soured on driving with a Kennedy.
Yesterday, Daddy Ted was scheduled to read to New York schoolkids from a book he claims to have written about his pet pooch. But he canceled, denying our youth a useful lesson in Using Your Name to Get Away With It.
Ted’s dog’s name is – and I wouldn’t dare make this up – Splash.
I hear Patrick’s getting a dog.
His name is Smash.