Just Another Kennedy

by John Massaro

IT WAS A Friday afternoon around two o’clock, and some of my fifth grade classmates were getting restless. We’d be going home soon, eagerly awaiting the weekend as usual, and with Thanksgiving six days away a longer weekend to look forward to. Hanging on a hook under the blackboard was a plain phone receiver with a direct line to the principal’s office. Now and then it would buzz with an ordinary message — gym class canceled, an upcoming field trip, that sort of thing. On this Friday afternoon it buzzed and Miss Schneider, our old maid teacher, answered it. “Hello,” she said in her cheerful way. “Oh no…. When?…. Oh dear god.”

It was obvious that this was no routine call. “Oh that’s terrible…. Oh dear god.” She hung up the phone and turned around to face us. “Please everyone, be quiet and pay attention because I have some terrible news.” She took a few moments to compose herself. Then she said, “President Kennedy was assassinated.”

Lola, the girl whose desk was next to mine in the front row, gasped, and I heard more gasps behind me. I could not process what I had just heard. “Is he dead?” I wondered out loud. “Of course he’s dead,” Lola snapped. No one in my classroom cried, but I later learned that other teachers and students in my elementary school wept openly upon hearing the news.

Three days later I stood silently with my parents in front of the television screen, watching the funeral procession. Mourners lined the sidewalks, some crying into their handkerchiefs, as Kennedy’s flag-draped casket, resting on a horse-drawn caisson, slowly made its way through the streets of Washington. Tears ran down my mother’s face. My father broke the silence only once, and I remember his exact words: “That’s how great men are lost.” Like so many people, my parents were taken by JFK’s charisma, and though they certainly weren’t liberal Democrats, they probably voted for him in the 1960 presidential election.

Everyone I knew liked or loved President Kennedy, who was the second youngest to assume that office. I certainly looked up to him. Of the thirteen presidents in my lifetime, only Ronald Reagan came close to him in popularity. To us kids, who knew nothing about politics, there was an aura of youth and leadership about him, enhanced by his image as a devoted husband and father of two adorable little children — that enchanting Camelot myth. And in retrospect, with the help of the mind-bending media, he cast the same spell over most adults. Much like the events of September 11, 2001, his murder was a national trauma. For a year or more after his death, his photograph hung in the post office, government buildings, and private homes. It was something for a ten-year-old to live in that time.

But there was another side to the story and I didn’t begin learning about it until twenty years later. JFK was despised by a lot of patriots for a lot of good reasons. Whatever one thinks about the Cold War — whether there was a genuine international communist conspiracy to enslave the world, or that it was mostly political theatre — and after all these years I’m still undecided myself — Kennedy was on the wrong side almost every time. It went back to his career as a U.S. senator from Massachusetts, when he was a cheerleader for “liberation” movements in Africa in the waning days of European colonialism. This carried over into his first year in the White House when, with his unequivocal support, a multinational United Nations army attacked Katanga, a breakaway province of the Congo, which had plunged into savagery and civil war immediately after being granted independence from Belgium in June 1960. Under a staunchly pro-Western, anti-communist native leader named Moise Tshombe, greatly admired by both Whites and Blacks, Katanga had seceded from the chaos, but Kennedy, the UN, and certain mining interests were determined to bring the new nation back under control of the central Marxist government. After sixteen months of on-again, off-again fighting they succeeded. This terror campaign against a civilized, sovereign country — one of the few bright spots in Africa — earned JFK the wrath of patriots throughout the U.S. and Europe, especially Belgium. He was a globalist all the way, with a blind, abiding faith in the farcical United Nations.

The most famous foreign policy blemish on JFK’s brief presidency was the botched Bay of Pigs operation in April 1961 — the plot to overthrow the Castro regime using American military force stiffened by a unit of anti-Castro Cubans who had fled their country after the communist revolution and settled in Florida. As with his assassination, there are conflicting versions of this event in which the CIA was heavily involved, but it appears that Kennedy approved the plan, then got cold feet after the assault began and called it off, depriving the 1400 Cuban volunteers of air cover and stranding them on the beach to Castro’s tender mercies.

In fact, JFK was consistent at talking like a tough anti-communist and acting the opposite way. This was evident in his dealings with his Soviet counterpart, Nikita Khrushchev. If the Bay of Pigs was his low point, his high point was the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962, when the two superpowers teetered on the brink of nuclear war — or so the story goes (I remember, as a frightened child, the tension in the air) — and the president supposedly stood firm while Khrushchev backed off and removed his missiles by ship from Cuban soil. In reality, though it was not reported, there was no thorough inspection of the cargo leaving Cuba and Kennedy made some quiet concessions, which included closing U.S. missile bases in Italy and Turkey and pledging that the U.S. would not interfere in Cuban affairs again. He went so far as to order the military to harass and interdict, at sea and on land, any activity by Cuban exile groups aimed at reclaiming their country.

This pattern was also repeated in southeast Asia. At the same time that he was dramatically increasing the U.S. military presence in South Vietnam, ostensibly to ward off the communist threat from the North, he demanded that the leaders of neighboring Laos create a coalition government by installing Soviet-backed communists in cabinet posts. When they refused, he retaliated by cutting off financial aid to the country. All this was a prelude to the Vietnam War. Kennedy set the stage for that pointless and obscene conflict, which began in March 1965 under the beast Lyndon Johnson. Some observers maintain that the war would never have happened during a Kennedy presidency, that he was planning to withdraw the military forces that he himself had built up, though there’s plenty of debate about this. He had given his half-hearted consent to a CIA-backed coup that overthrew the president of South Vietnam, Ngo DInh Diem, but professed to be shocked when Diem’s generals assassinated him and his brother, just three weeks before he met the same fate in Dallas. The man had a long rap sheet of poor judgment, of indecisive and inconsistent directives. If you’re interested in reading further on Kennedy’s woeful foreign policy I recommend None Dare Call it Treason by John Stormer, especially the chapter titled “Words vs. Action,” and The Fearful Master: A Second Look at the United Nations by G. Edward Griffin. Much of the latter book focuses on the UN war on Katanga and JFK’s full-fledged support of it, a forgotten and disgraceful chapter of American foreign policy, which at the time was twisted by the lying media to convince the boobs that it was a righteous cause to prevent further communist penetration in Africa. Several photographs of atrocities committed by the New World Order terrorists are included. Both books were published in 1964.

JFK was no less egregious on the home front. He was often hounded by protestors holding up signs who were fed up with his sham leadership. In turn he repeatedly ranted against anti-communist organizations, the “conspiracy theorists” of their day. Along with his brother, RFK Sr., whom he appointed as attorney general, he was a fervent “civil rights” crusader who literally made war on the South. Alabama and Mississippi in particular became racial battlegrounds where Whites fought back furiously against federal schemes to ram integration down their throats. The most violent of these battles took place on September 30 – October 1, 1962 at the segregated University of Mississippi in Oxford as a result of the gate-crashing Negro James Meredith trying to register as a student. Meredith had already attended Jackson State, an historically Black university, and done well there, but that wasn’t good enough for him. There was tremendous resistance — two were killed and hundreds injured — and Kennedy responded by sending federal marshals and then more and more U.S. Army troops to the scene, followed by still more arriving in military planes. To quote Wikipedia: “Troop arrivals continued: soldiers from the 82nd Airborne Division and 101st Airborne Division arrived in Oxford on C-124 Globemaster aircraft. Machine gun nests were set up along roadways…. The strength of all forces mobilized was nearly 31,000 — the largest for a single disturbance in American history.” Much more can be read on the “Ole Miss Riot of 1962” page, though needless to say, in true Wikipedia form the article is slanted and riddled with lies of omission.

I knew nothing about this as a child. All I knew was that Kennedy magic and the way he inspired us with his orations, and famous lines like “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” And judging from the outpouring of grief when he was shot, most adults didn’t know much better. I’ve never looked into the news coverage of domestic affairs at the time, but I can only guess that every important issue was twisted or heavily censored, just like today. But obviously a sizable conservative chunk of the population despised the 35th president.

But Kennedy was a complex man, full of contradictions; sometimes he even seemed like one of us. Years before he became president he spoke with admiration of Adolf Hitler and his place in history, and predicted that all the notoriety surrounding him would eventually fade away. He was outraged when he learned of Operation Northwoods, a false flag plot dreamed up by Jewish head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Lyman Lemnitzer, to commit acts of terror in America, including shooting down civilian aircraft, which would be blamed on Castro. “And they call it the human race,” Kennedy reportedly said, and demoted Lemnitzer. Even then, Henry Kissinger, still in his thirties, was trying to worm his way to the levers of power but JFK was repelled by him and made it clear that he wanted him nowhere near the White House. He hated the CIA and spoke of “scattering it to the winds.” He intended to get rid of the Federal Reserve. (The “fact checkers” at PolitiFact claim this isn’t true, which tells me that it probably is.) He was adamant about preventing Israel from acquiring nuclear weapons, and had an acrimonious relationship with that bandit state’s first prime minister David Ben-Gurion. Additionally, and this is subjective on my part — I’m sure others will disagree — I have a favorable opinion of two projects that he was keen on: the space program, which I consider an expression of the White race’s Faustian quest to explore the unknown; and the Peace Corps, not because of its impractical objectives, but insofar as it offered young Americans, whatever their political persuasion, a valuable education through direct observation of the inequality of the races, and an opportunity to promote good will between nations. I believe that JFK, whose older brother Joseph Jr. was killed during a mission in World War Two — and who himself cheated death in that war during a famous PT boat misadventure in which he emerged as a genuine hero — hated war and sought to avoid it, even if his addled brain led him down the opposite path at times.

Considering that JFK’s murder was the defining event of my childhood, it may seem strange that I’ve never really been interested in the facts surrounding it. That’s because I’m convinced that the full truth, maybe even half of it, will never be known. More than 2000 books have been written on the subject, all of which contradict each other to some degree, and probably everyone connected with the assassination, on the inside or just marginally, is dead now, having taken many secrets to the grave, so what’s the use? I’ve read only two books, Plausible Denial by Mark Lane, and Final Judgment by the late Michael Collins Piper — to my knowledge the only book that probes Israeli involvement in the killing. Yet notwithstanding Piper’s courage and exhaustive research, this was an unsatisfying read. Others may disagree, but I found it to be filled with too much speculation and too many loose ends, and little in the way of hard evidence — no fault of Piper’s. In fact, even though I knew the Kennedy family was weighed down with dirty laundry, and was aware of critical books written about them, like The Dark Side of Camelot by investigative reporter Seymour Hersh, I’d never read any until just last month.

I’ve never wasted my time reading mysteries, detective novels, and tell-all Hollywood gossip, and I usually steer clear of books with sensational titles. I’m sure most people reading these lines feel the same way.

But something lured me into buying Bombshell: The Night Bobby Kennedy Killed Marilyn Monroe by Mike Rothmiller, a former detective with the Los Angeles Police Department, and co-author Douglas Thompson. I ordered it from Amazon; it’s unlikely you’ll find it in your local bookstore or public library. I was so blown away by this book that I’m going to make a long detour here and review it, though for reasons of space I’ll have to leave out many pertinent details.

I was eight at the time, and only vaguely recall the news of Marilyn Monroe‘s death. In later years I’d always thought of her as a pathetic ditz and believed the official narrative that she died after swallowing too many barbiturates. Whether it was suicide or an accidental overdose didn’t interest me. I also knew that John and Bobby Kennedy were said to have had an affair with the world famous sex symbol but that didn’t interest me either, though I did get a kick out of watching the YouTube clip of Marilyn, dressed in a skin-tight sequined gown, singing a very sultry Happy Birthday to the president at a Madison Square Garden gala in May 1962.

After Rothmiller joined the force and rose through the ranks, he was attached to the Organized Crime Intelligence Division (OCID), which gave him personal access to the restricted files of the LAPD. I was astounded to learn that this police department had a vast, illegal spying operation that the NKVD would’ve envied. The OCID literally had a library of documents with secret information on politicians from the president down, as well as mobsters, athletes, big name celebrities and others, even people never suspected of any wrongdoing. Listening devices had been installed in Marilyn’s home in Brentwood, a tony suburb of L.A., and also in the Santa Monica beach home of Hollywood actor Peter Lawford, a friend of Marilyn’s and brother-in-law of the Kennedys, having married their sister Patricia. He served as a link between them when they visited California, and they often stayed at his house. The gangsters who headed up the OCID — Rothmiller names names — were close to the Kennedys, especially Bobby, and very protective of them even while they were spying on them.

Not that I knew or cared much, but I always kind of pitied Marilyn Monroe, and felt that way much more so after reading this book. She’d had a traumatic childhood spent mostly in foster homes, then a string of broken marriages. Confused, naïve, unstable, overdoing it with alcohol and prescription drugs, exploited and abused by the seedy rich and famous, as Bombshell details, she allowed herself to be passed around like a sex toy, but at bottom only wanted to be loved. The closest she came was with baseball great Joe DiMaggio, but he couldn’t stand the crowd she hung out with, and their marriage lasted only nine months.

I never knew that a shadow of suspicion hung over the circumstances of her death, let alone that it fell on the Kennedys. But Rothmiller became fascinated by this case and was one of only a few who had access to a gold mine of documents including, most significantly, Marilyn’s diary. She died just before midnight on August 4, 1962. With the help of his powerful friends in the LAPD, RFK concocted an elaborate cover story to prove that he wasn’t in Los Angeles that day, but Rothmiller discovered that this was a lie, that he had actually visited Marilyn’s home that afternoon and again later that evening with Peter Lawford — and had a very good reason to see her dead. The entries in her diary are eye-popping, and include steamy details of her trysts with John, which I won’t relate here. After reading this, and other passages about JFK’s endless philandering, I thought, “What a piece of sh__ this guy was.” His promiscuity makes Bill Clinton look like a piker, the one difference being that all JFK’s conquests seem to have been consensual. Moreover, his pillow talk, as spelled out in Marilyn’s diary, showed him to be extremely careless. I couldn’t believe that a sitting president would indulge such sensitive secrets while having an illicit affair with a Hollywood starlet. That there was bad blood between the Kennedy brothers and Vice President Lyndon Johnson was no secret in Washington, but lying in bed JFK reiterated his hatred of the Texan, calling him a “dumb cowboy.” He called Khrushchev a horrible man who needed to be stopped. He told Marilyn that J. Edgar Hoover thought she was a communist but that she shouldn’t worry about it. Regarding Cuba, she wrote, “John does not like Fidel C and said he will be gone soon,” an allusion to his approval of CIA plans to assassinate him, though incongruously he also confided to her that he didn’t like the CIA because they had lied to him. She was put off by the president’s sexual demands, preferring Bobby instead. From the diary: “Bobby is gentle. He listens to me. He’s nicer than John. Bobby said he loves me and wants to marry me. I love him.” She really believed that the attorney general of the United States, the president’s younger brother, was in love with her and would divorce his wife Ethel to marry her.

The Kennedy boys had given Marilyn their private phone numbers, and when they decided it was time to dump her they stopped returning her calls. Only then did Marilyn realize she’d been used all along. Heartbroken and furious, she announced that she would soon call a press conference to spill the beans, which would likely bring down the presidency. Fatal mistake.

Twenty years after the death of Marilyn Monroe, and purely by chance while he was immersed in it, Mike Rothmiller ran into Peter Lawford, by then a haggard wreck of a man. Rothmiller slipped him his business card and asked him to call, not knowing if he would, but he did. Rothmiller already knew, from the OCID files, that RFK and Lawford were in Marilyn’s house when she died. He also knew that RFK had telephoned his brother in Washington that day to keep him updated, so it seems certain that JFK approved of the plot. (If I can hazard a guess, JFK was distressed to see her killed but saw no other solution to the threat she posed.) Rothmiller’s instincts told him that she had been murdered, but there were some blanks to fill in and he wanted to hear the whole story directly from eyewitness Peter Lawford. They met in a park and Rothmiller asked him a series of tough questions, some of which the justifiably paranoid Lawford answered with great hesitation. The detective was sure that he was an innocent man who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and could see that he was wracked by pain and guilt over the actress’s untimely death at 36, but with a combination of sympathy and firmness, persisted with his questions. In bits and pieces, a tearful Lawford confessed to what had happened that night.

This, in a nutshell, is what happened: RFK and Lawford went to Marilyn’s home on the night of August 4. She was livid over the way she had been used by him and his brother. RFK offered to pay her to keep her mouth shut. This infuriated her further. A violent scuffle followed with Kennedy throwing her to the floor and screaming threats and profanities. “Where is it?” he kept yelling, meaning her diary. He went through the house, opening cabinets and drawers looking for it. Marilyn sat sobbing on her bed while Lawford, shocked by what had just happened, consoled her. She then got up to confront RFK but Lawford convinced her to sit on the living room sofa. Lawford then went into the kitchen and saw Kennedy stirring a glass of water with a spoon, which he thought was strange, but assumed it was a sedative. RFK would not speak to him. He brought the glass to Marilyn, still crying on the sofa, and ordered her to drink it to calm her nerves which, with prodding from Lawford, she did. She quickly became drowsy as RFK, with Lawford following him, continued to rummage through the house, searching unsuccessfully for her diary. Returning to the living room, Lawford noticed, to his horror, that Marilyn, still on the sofa, was not breathing and said they should call an ambulance, but RFK insisted on leaving immediately. Grabbing Lawford’s arm, he led him out the door and towards the car that would take RFK to the airport to fly on a private plane to San Francisco. On the way out of the house they passed L.A.’s two top cops, one of whom Lawford recognized as Captain James Hamilton, RFK’s close friend. No words were spoken. They were there to move the body and stage the scene to make it look like a drug overdose. The cover-up continued right up through the autopsy report.

For twenty years Peter Lawford stuck to the official script that Marilyn Monroe had committed suicide, knowing that it would be very dangerous to deviate from it. He died two years after his confession to Mike Rothmiller at age 61. He drank himself to death, a broken man long burdened by a terrible secret. Considering the public’s endless fascination with the life and death of Marilyn Monroe, and a lingering interest in the Kennedy family, one might think this book would’ve become a runaway bestseller, but that’s not how the world works. It was published in 2021 by an obscure British firm. Did you ever hear of it? And how do I know for certain that Detective Rothmiller was telling the unvarnished truth? I don’t, of course, but every page conveys the temperament of a brave, intuitive, and honest man. Yes, there are some cops like him — I only wish there were a lot more. Adding more credibility to Bombshell is the fact that, shortly after interrogating Peter Lawford, a gunman on a motorbike pulled up alongside Rothmiller’s unmarked police car. The quick-thinking detective, unable to draw his own gun in time, veered away sharply, managing to avoid the hail of bullets that struck his car, but he lost control, crashed, and was ejected, sustaining life-threatening injuries from which he later recovered.

RFK Sr. got his just deserts on June 5, 1968. It was huge news, of course, but strange to say I don’t remember how I first heard of the shooting, his death the following day, the funeral, or any of the other details that I recall so vividly when JFK was shot, even though I was older. In Bombshell there are a few reminiscences of him as a nasty person subject to dark moods. The one image that I retain is a handsome man with an outgoing personality and a winning smile — every bit as charismatic as his brother. During the aforementioned riot in Oxford, Mississippi he ordered the arrest, for sedition and insurrection, of a patriotic retired Army general, Edwin Walker, who had supposedly given an inflammatory speech on campus, though there were widely conflicting accounts as to what had actually happened. Furthermore, RFK had him committed to the Federal Prison Medical Center in Springfield, Missouri for psychiatric examination, which usually meant a minimum of two months’ detention. Public outrage was so great that Walker was released in eight days and all charges were dropped.

Robert Kennedy was a malignant, ambitious little turd whose stint as Attorney General was plain nepotism. JFK, at least, had a few redeeming qualities, but not his brother. His claim to fame was his battle against organized crime (how amusing, a cold-blooded murderer taking on the Mafia). He had a longstanding, childish vendetta against Teamsters Union boss Jimmy Hoffa going back to the late 1950s, when he sat on a committee investigating mob infiltration of labor unions. He absurdly called Hoffa “the most dangerous man in America.” Hoffa would later serve five years in prison after being convicted of bribery and fraud. I know nothing about Hoffa’s activities and have no idea if he was framed, but the fact that he disappeared forever in 1975 tells me that he was an unsavory character mixed up with high-powered mobsters. But whatever his misdeeds, he was a self-made man from a hardscrabble background who, at a very young age, worked at menial, low-paying jobs to help support his family. I’ve seen an amusing clip of him sparring with RFK at a congressional hearing. They amusingly hated each other’s guts. Hoffa enjoyed taunting RFK in public statements, once calling him “nothing but a rich man’s kid.” No truer words were ever spoken.

I’d be remiss in not writing a few words about the youngest brother, Edward “Ted” Kennedy, who represented Massachusetts as a U.S. senator for nearly 47 years. He was an utterly useless bag of garbage and probably the most radical politician in my lifetime. He checked almost every box. He not only supported the 1965 Hart-Celler Act, which heavily favored non-White immigration into the U.S. for the first time ever, he was the one who introduced that pernicious legislation. He was for abortion and queer rights. He was a staunch supporter of affirmative action and gun control. He was an advocate of compulsory busing in the mid-1970s, a lunatic scheme to achieve racial balance in the classroom by busing White schoolchildren to schools located in high-crime Black areas, and Black students to White schools, mainly in the Boston area. This resulted in numerous riots and interracial violence in high schools. On one occasion, while defending his position to a group of enraged parents, largely from his Irish Catholic constituency, he made an unplanned early departure, fearing for his safety. A typical liberal hypocrite, he sent his own children to private schools.

But he was and still is most famous for a tragedy that took place on the night of July 18, 1969, though it was minimally reported at the time, blocked out as it was by the excitement and nonstop TV coverage of the impending Apollo 11 moon landing. On that evening Ted, along with five male friends, all but one of whom were married, hosted a cookout on Chappaquiddick, a small island just off Martha’s Vineyard, the longtime vacation playground of the monied class, for six unmarried former staffers of RFK’s 1968 presidential campaign. Kennedy left with 28-year-old Mary Jo Kopechne sometime after 11 PM. Where they were headed and whether or not he was drunk has never been determined. Making a wrong turn, or so he later claimed, he drove his Oldsmobile 88 onto a narrow wooden bridge with no guardrails, then plunged into a pond. He escaped and swam to shore, leaving the young woman to drown in the submerged automobile. There was an occupied house with a light on nearby but he didn’t seek help, and didn’t even report the accident until the next morning. He went on to make dubious statements, at times changing his story, and there were irregularities as the inquest proceeded and his team went into damage control. It’s a complicated story with several theories as to what actually happened, the details of which can easily be perused on the net. In the end he was not charged with involuntary manslaughter, as befitted the crime, but merely with leaving the scene of an accident, and given a suspended two-month prison sentence and temporary revocation of his drivers license. There was obviously a cover-up and he never spent a day in jail. The sanctity of America’s royal family, though tarnished a bit, was preserved once again.

I’m not writing a book here, but since both generations of Kennedys are such easy marks I have to give in to temptation, so let me make passing, dishonorable mention of JFK’s only surviving child and mother of his three half-Jewish grandchildren, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg, who’s about to turn 66 and is the U.S. ambassador to Australia. How many people do you know who gush over Barack Obama and Joe Biden, who actually think they’re fine men with outstanding presidential legacies? She also was thrilled when her eldest child, lesbian daughter Rose, married another woman, welcoming her into the family with open arms. Caroline is such a wind-up zombie doll, such a liberal airhead, that it’s hard to believe that she’s not engaging in satire every time she opens her mouth.

So here we are once again with the latest, and perhaps the last, progressive Kennedy, the son of a murderer, who thinks he’s going to make the country, and the world, a better place. Like George Bush Jr. and Donald Trump, he got to where he is only because of Daddy’s money. Actually Grandpa’s money, which was showered on Daddy and his siblings. It’s common knowledge that Joseph Kennedy Sr., the patriarch of this messed-up family, became enormously wealthy by making shrewd investments and business deals, and bought his three surviving sons their political careers. Actually, Joe Sr. had a few things going for him, one of which is that he was Jew-wise and not afraid to talk about it, which led to his resignation as U.S. ambassador to Great Britain shortly after the outbreak of World War Two. His attitude towards the Jews apparently trickled down to John, but certainly not to Bobby and Ted.

Robert Kennedy Jr. is a seriously flawed individual. As a teenager he was expelled from two boarding schools for drug use and arrested for possession of marijuana. Years later he became a heroin addict and was arrested again for possession of that substance. (His younger brother David died of a drug overdose). He’s for same-sex marriage and LGBTQ privileges. He’s good friends with trashy Jewish comedian Larry David and pushy Holohoax survivor Vera Sharav. He’s now on his third marriage and was an unfaithful, skirt-chasing bum, which seems to be a genetic trait with the men of this family. On September 8, 2013, the New York Post published a juicy article titled “RFK’s sex diary: His secret journal of affairs.” The newspaper purportedly obtained a copy of his 2001 diary which detailed his liaisons with 37 women, sixteen of whom he had sex with (he kept a “scorecard”), while he was married to his second wife Mary Richardson, who committed suicide in 2012. The article documents some rather kinky behavior and attitudes on his part. The diary is actually quite introspective, with Bobby confessing to feelings of guilt about his “lust demons.” When questioned by a Post reporter about it, he denied that he kept a diary that year. You can read the article online and draw your own conclusions. One fact alone, that he’s been a longtime friend and supporter of Hillary Clinton, has praised her character, campaigned for her and actually called her “great,” should tell you all you need to know about this guy. If not, consider his assessment of October 7 as “an ignominious, unprovoked, and barbaric attack on Israel” which “must be met with world condemnation and unequivocal support for the Jewish state’s right to self-defense. We must provide Israel with whatever it needs to defend itself — now.”

RFK gets very worked up over big businessmen who don’t believe in global warming, and has expressed a wish to imprison them. However, I think he takes more after his Uncle John than his father and Uncle Ted — that is, he’s not a total zero but does deserve a little credit. If, as is claimed, he was instrumental in cleaning up the Hudson River, and waterways throughout the western hemisphere, by filing numerous lawsuits against major industrial polluters, then I tip my hat to him. But these days he’s better known for speaking out against the depravity of the big pharmaceutical companies and federal “public health” agencies, especially in regard to dangerous vaccines that have been harming our children. Last year I read his book The Real Anthony Fauci, which goes far beyond the crimes of that infamous slimeball. The Kennedy name alone instantly lights up the landscape, and his authorship of a timely book with a provocative title guaranteed huge sales despite a media blackout. It quickly sold more than a million copies, while so many obscure authors struggle to sell a few thousand or even just a few hundred copies of their works. Having said that, I will add that The Real Anthony Fauci is a valuable read, especially for those unfamiliar with the putrid corruption of the medical-industrial complex, even though I do have some criticisms, namely the fact that RFK takes the Covid scamdemic seriously, and scatters his idiotic liberal ideas and biases throughout. Nevertheless, he fearlessly exposes the vile scum who are responsible for so much misery and death in the world, and in doing so has painted a target on his back. Perhaps there was a connection between his outspokenness on this topic and the arrest, on September 15, of an armed man impersonating a federal marshal who got near him at an appearance in Los Angeles.

But I don’t want to be too generous in my praise. The Jewish media, masters of deceit and confusion, have long been spinning RFK as an anti-vaxxer, but he’s anything but. Since the Kennedy name is catnip to so many, including well-meaning people who have been exposing the vaccine fraud, RFK’s input, both as a public speaker and a literary contributor, is frequently sought. He wrote the foreword to Vaccine Whistleblower: Exposing Autism Research Fraud at the CDC, published in 2015. Most of this book is a transcript of four secretly but legally recorded phone conversations with a conscience-stricken senior scientist at the CDC named William Thompson. These are RFK’s opening lines: “I have always been fiercely pro-vaccine. I had all six of my children vaccinated. I believe that vaccines have saved millions of lives and that broad vaccine coverage is desirable. To achieve those goals we need safe vaccines, transparent and reliable science, and an independent regulatory agency.” Some anti-vaxxer. The rest of the foreword, however, is hard-hitting and rational.

Nevertheless, it gets worse. I credit Brian Shilhavy, who runs the generally excellent (minus the biblical verses) website healthimpactnews.com, with exposing more unpleasant facts about this man. In a January 3, 2023 article that questioned the motives of some of the big shots who were blasting the Covid vaccine, there’s a brief video clip of RFK not only doubling down on being a fierce supporter of vaccines, but adding this gem: “We should have policies that encourage full vaccination for all Americans.” Furthermore, the article links to his 2021 tax return, which shows that he earned a salary of $497,013 as chairman and chief legal counsel of his 501-c non-profit organization Children’s Health Defense, sweetening his net worth of roughly $60 million. On childrenshealthdefense.org, he puts forth an insipid six-step plan to get the vaccine train back on the right track. He is a true believer in vaccines, as long as the manufacturers get the toxic ingredients out, but has never addressed the fact that no safe vaccine has ever been invented. Considering the tyrannical streak in his father and uncles, and his quotations above, if he had the power I wouldn’t put it past him to mandate that all Americans be injected with a whole slew of “safe” vaccines.

I remember reading, though I forget where, of someone asking the cagey critter, who has written forcefully about the crime of pumping our children full of so many dangerous concoctions, which childhood vaccines ought to be eliminated. He sidestepped the question, saying something like “That’s for the experts to decide, not me.” We need to ask ourselves: What game is this guy playing? Or given that his brain is obviously scrambled, is he even playing a game or just unknowingly spouting nonsense?

RFK’s most recent book, co-authored and released earlier this year, is Vax-Unvax: Let the Science Speak. I don’t have time to read every book out there and I have no intention of reading this one. From what I gather, it examines numerous studies demonstrating that, on average, unvaccinated children are far healthier than vaccinated children. As if that’s big news. As if the science hasn’t been speaking loud and clear for more than a hundred years. Unsurprisingly, the book has received rave reviews on Amazon, including some from people in the movement whom I respect. Not to sound arrogant, but having researched the subject myself — more exhaustively than RFK, I daresay — and written my own book, I reached the point, after ten years or so, where there were no more crucial facts to learn. The facts keep repeating themselves. Only the scenery changes — new criminals, new vaccines, new disasters, new cover-ups. My position is that vaccines have been a total fraud since day one, May 14, 1796, and will eventually end up in the junkyard of History with other medical delusion like variolation and bloodletting. No one has been able to show me one vaccine developer, beginning with Edward Jenner, who wasn’t or isn’t a failure, swindler, or psychopath. RFK and I are only two months apart in age, so surely he saw that kids of our generation, who got a total of only five or six vaccine doses, were incomparably healthier than kids today, most of whom get upwards of fifty doses from birth to age eighteen. So where is he coming from when he says that broad vaccine coverage is desirable — and just what does he mean by “broad?” I’d like to see one of his millions of admirers reconcile his reputation as a Saint George slaying the vaccine dragon with his assertion that he’s fiercely pro-vaccine. If, in Vax-Unvax, he has changed his tune, I’d like to know about it and will acknowledge it, but seeing how he operates — like a typical Kennedy — I doubt that he has.

As everyone knows, Mr. Kennedy is running as an independent in the 2024 presidential election. That election — if it even happens in this disintegrating country — promises to be like no other in our history. It’s already a circus in the making. I don’t like making predictions so I’ll offer a few thoughts instead. Assuming that a nice little heart attack or accident isn’t arranged for him, I think he has a fair chance of winning the clown contest. I can already see that Kennedy mystique at work — that same appeal that JFK held out for people of all ages, which I remember as a child: that look of leadership, of vision, that inspirational talk of ambitious ideas which JFK dubbed “The New Frontier.” Think about it. How many people are going to vote for the dying Biden next time? And a lot of people who voted for Trump have become disillusioned with him, not to mention the cringeworthy line-up of alternative Republican candidates. So who’s left? RFK’s one great obstacle is the media monolith censoring his campaign, just like they did with Ron Paul’s.

Actually, I think RFK and Trump have a lot in common. Both were born into wealth and never had a financial worry in the world. Both are clever but innately stupid and morally flabby. They both strike a pose as a man of the people, but as far as I can tell, neither of them ever had a real part-time or full-time job in their teens or twenties, unlike most working and middle class folks who found some kind of productive work and learned about responsibility when they were growing up, and now work hard to make ends meet; so what do these two know about real people and their concerns? Neither will touch the two core problems that are destroying us — the worsening racial disaster and Jewish supremacy. In fact, both are shameless Jewish boot lickers. And despite that, they’re both disdained by the mainstream media. If RFK’s popularity continues to build, I’m sure the media jackals will rattle a few skeletons, as they did with Trump, and as I’ve pointed out, there are plenty of skeletons in the family closet.

I took a look at kennedy24.com. Judging by the number of events, he seems to have a lot of support, especially among younger, more impressionable voters, and usually gets favorable coverage from local media outlets. His accomplishments are there for you to admire, most of them involving his successes in cleaning up the environment by suing the pants off the worst offenders. I have no idea if these statements are true, but if they are, I’ll say again, give the man credit where credit is due. As for his priorities once he’s in the White House, they’re pretty funny. Like his presidential uncle he does have some sensible schemes, like keeping our air and water clean, scaling down the military and dismantling the American empire. Nice ideas if they can be put into practice without tearing the whole System down. But most of what he proposes is just the same old blather. He’s going to heal the wounds of racism by improving Black communities. He’s going to keep neighborhoods safe through police reform. He’s going to launch a network of drug addiction healing centers — on organic farms, no less. He’s going to end all the bitter polarization by uniting left and right, Black and White, young and old, urban and rural. Yeah, okay Bobby. Get a life.

You can find a few photographs on the internet of RFK, as a young boy, diddling around the Oval Office like Little Lord Fauntleroy while Uncle John looks on. We only get one shot at life and I can’t say I envy anyone with that kind of privileged upbringing. Just about every such person I can think of was a mediocrity at best, lacking values and disconnected from the real world. But they’re all too human like the rest of us and don’t like being put on the spot. In the aforementioned Post article, when RFK was asked about his sex diary and denied its existence, he initially reacted with six seconds of stunned silence, according to the reporter who questioned him. In his speeches and writings he often mentions the legacy of his father and uncles, which he’s so proud of. Never a critical word about any of them. Truth can be a very painful weapon when aimed at people like this who have carefully kept a lid on so many lies for so long. We all have our silly daydreams, and this is one of mine: confronting RFK with a copy of Bombshell while he’s gladhanding supporters on the campaign trail and saying, for all to hear, “Hey Bobby, did you know that your father murdered Marilyn Monroe and your Uncle John was in on it? Here, read this book.”

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