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| John Barham |
NO ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND SHOULD EVER VOTE FOR ROY DE LOS SANTOS!
AN OPEN LETTER TO ROY EXPLAINING WHY
I DO NOT IN THE LEAST LIKE HIM
Dear Roy Old Boy:
In order to illustrate what I mean, I am going to tell you a true story. So, listen up! Hopefully, the story will inform you as to why I don't think too much of you or your campaign.
It was a beautiful, bright morning near the end of August, with just a touch of fall in the air. The young family was going to take a final road trip to the big city before the start of the school year. The dad was 39, a business man whose real interest was the piano, and some had even compared him to Jose Iturbi. The mom was 36, very bright, and a dynamo of energy in the family business. The little boy was 9, but would reach his 10th year in the next month.
All three were looking forward to a visit to a world-famous zoo, an art museum full of great works and an evening at the Muny Opera.
The boy sat in the front seat with his dad, while the mom enjoyed the space in the backseat of the Buick Roadmaster, a model of which the dad was quite fond. All three were wearing jackets, owing to the early fall weather.
About 90 miles up the road, the youngster awakened from a doze, just in time to see an object hurtling at great speed across the median. It was clear that the object (a 48 souped up Ford) was going to collide with the Buick. The kid reflexively braced his left leg on the dashboard, not thinking of the damage that such a position could do. Maybe he was unconscious for a few moments but when he was aware of what had happened he heard his father screaming, "Oh, God, why couldn't it have been me!" Then he looked to the right where the front passenger door had been and saw his mother contorted into a heap in the dirt beside the road. He desperately tried to exit the car and get to his mother, but his crushed leg gave way, and he found himself on the ground, unable to move. He noticed that he was bleeding from his mouth and that his lower teeth had been severed from his gums. Then he passed out.
The mother was killed instantly and had suffered a broken neck. The father had a crushed pelvis and a right hand that had been broken in several places. He would never again play the piano as he had earlier in his life. All this was the work of a drunken driver.
The father and his son were evacuated to a major hospital in the big city, where thy were separated, the son going to the children's ward of the hospital. Both of them underwent major surgeries, barring them from any chance of attending the mother's funeral.
And now comes the kicker,Roy old boy. The little boy was me. My family had been destroyed by a drunk driver. After two months in the hospital, my father and I were united. But life would never be the same. I was lucky inasmuch as I had a dad who loved me deeply. But for almost two years I was in a daze. I would wake up at night screaming and continued to do so as an adult. I have terrified Alma, my wife on occasion, but thanks be to God I have escaped that terror over the last two decades.
My dad and I were physically put back together. My leg was put into traction, and I had plastic surgery and two broken jaws that were wired.
One finds out that injuries occurring earlier in life come back to haunt us. By the time I was in high school, I had grown to 6'4''. And basketball was the big thing there. It was thought that my leg had totally healed and so I hit the courts hard, playing on teams that regularly made the state tournament. Our big nemesis up the road was a guy named Bill Bradley, who went on to Princeton as an All American, studied at Oxford and played for the Knicks. I went to basketball camp with Bradley in the summer and thought I could play in college, but gradually things were changing in my leg. The wear and tear of sport had accelerated the undoing of my leg.
It was near the end of my senior season. I weighed in at about 205 lbs. but went up for a rebound against a player my height but who probably was at least 230. We collided hard. I fell to the floor, unable to get up on my own. Thus began my painful odyssey of dealing with my left leg. A specialist in Atlanta told me when I was in my thirties that the trauma of the car wreck had prevented blood nourishment from getting to several places in my leg. Since then I have had fractures and breaks and my left knee has been replaced two times. Just recently, I underwent a total left hip replacement.
So you see, Roy old boy, drunk drivers can kill moms and dads and kids. And they can cause such mayhem that some of their victims carry the scars of the thoughtlessness of drunk driving for the rest of their lives. And that, Roy old boy, is why I do not like you, for I loath drunk drivers. And you, an adult of 47 or 48 have been pulled over 2 times for your recklessness and suspicion of DUI. As I understand it, your second trip to court will be later this month. And I hope the judge will throw the book at you!
I have served as a city councilman. I must say that body had no one of your likes on it. You, Roy old boy, would never have made the cut. For a man of your age, you have shown an egregious lack of good judgement, and are not at all likely to serve our city in good form. And, by the way, Roy old boy, you do look terribly dashing in your orange jail duds. In fact, I believe that raiment suits you perfectly.
Be assured, Roy old boy, that I do not dislike you because you are gay or even because you wish to foist a non-discrimination ordinance on our city that would likely perform reverse discrimination on people of faith. I do not like you because of your past history and bad judgement. Also, Roy old boy, I saw photos of you cavorting at the new bar opening. Not a particularly great idea with your court date coming up soon. In the meantime I will hope Ms. Puente Bradshaw will kick your "nalgas" so hard in the coming election that public service will be the farthest thing from your mind in the very near future.
DEO VINDICE!
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