“Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s remarks that autism ‘destroys’ children have prompted outrage among many autistic people, who said they had done things Mr. Kennedy claimed were impossible, like hold a job, write a poem, play baseball, and go on dates. They added that the lives of people who did need help performing daily activities were still worthy of respect.” — New York Times
I’ll say one thing for Robert Kennedy Jr.—he’s got some fucking nerve. The treatment he received at St. Eligius Hospital for his brain worm was second to none. Still, here he is out here spewing absolute garbage about autistic people, even though his life rests in a member of that community’s hands—i.e., mine.
Whether or not I’ll pay taxes (overrated) or go on a date (if you’re taking dating advice from any Kennedy, you should probably be in jail) is immaterial. What I can do—what I, in fact, DID do—is create a multilayered, years-long medical drama that jump-started several careers (Denzel Washington, anybody? Helen Hunt? David Morse—you know him, he’s that guy with the face) and laid the groundwork for an entire genre of gritty, realistic hospital programs. I created a world, and that world exists within a universe, which contains not only hospitals and Kennedys but everything and everyone you know, and I made it all inside a fucking snow globe, so miss me with your bullshit about whether or not I’ll ever write a poem.
Bobby Jr. sounds pretty confident talking about all the things people with autism can’t do, doesn’t he? Maybe that’s because he doesn’t have even a whisper of an internal life, and can’t possibly imagine what that might be like for those of us who do. I can, because not only do I have an internal life, I have ALL the internal lives, including his. And yours.
He can’t imagine, for instance, how many lives the vaccine program at St. Eligius has saved, because his whole worm-eaten brain is consumed with trying to prove those vaccines cause autism, which they do not. He once felt good after a day doing farm cosplay on Martha’s Vineyard, so he thinks farm work would cure people with ADHD, because he can’t imagine that anyone might have a different brain chemistry or life experience than his. He’s mad that people call him “Froot Loops,” so he’s trying to punish them by making Froot Loops gray scale.
Funny how hard in the paint he’s going over sugar and food dye for being “unnatural” and “poisonous,” isn’t it? Do you think all the heroin he shot up was organic? Did he maybe just chew gently on a poppy until he was zooted out of his skull? Is sugar really the white powder he should be concerned about, or did all the coke he hoovered up burn a few nice holes for his worm to hide in?
Anyway, I’ve had just about enough of his nonsense. I’m giving him twenty-four hours to clear the premises, and if he refuses, I’m just gonna drain the whole thing. Goodbye, snow globe; goodbye, St. Eligius; goodbye, supporting universe. I guess that wipes out the whole Kennedy clan, but that job’s been half done already. Mary Jo Kopechne, vengeance is finally yours.
After all, I’ve got other snow globes to attend to. This one from MAR-A-LAGO, for instance, has been nothing but a headache lately.