An Open Invitation to Maria Shriver.

Dear Maria,

I saw you on Meet the Press a few Sundays ago where you gave an interview regaling the legacies of your deceased uncle Ted and your mother, Eunice.  You seem so proud of them.  And you should be:  they were great Americans.  As I watched your interview, I got to thinking.  Girlfriend, we need to get together for some margaritas.  My treat.  (And that’s saying something on my furlough-depleted salary.)  You see, I really want to understand the whole Kennedy thing and how that jives with the whole being-married-to-anti-Christ-thing.  They say opposites attract, but really?!  People want to know.  I want to know.

Since there really is no better social lubricant than tequila, and since I don’t take you for a beer and shooters kind of girl, margaritas will have to do.  Now, all modesty aside, I think I make the best margies in town, but you can’t come here.  I don’t want your husband knowing where I live – no disrespect.  As an alternative, I proposed Tres Hermanas.  I think their margaritas are pretty good and it’s a Sacramento small business that is  undoubtedly suffering due to your husband’s furlough policy.

We will sit down and order a pitcher of their top shelf margaritas.  You see,  we are going to get very drunk.  I want you well into blotto-land when I finally get down to the reason for our sipping session.  Girl, what in the hell are you thinking?!  That whirring sound you hear is not the air conditioning unit at the restaurant – no, that sound is your mother turning at mach speed in her grave.  She was a champion for the disabled.  The very people your husband seeks to throw to the wolves with his Draconian economic policies.   Or, if you are more comfortable, that whirring sound could just as easily be Uncle Teddy – what, with your husband’s attempt to cut off thousands of California children from Healthy Families.

So, it must be interesting times at the Kennedy/Schwarzenegger residence, eh?  The way I see it, there are only a few plausible theories about what makes your marriage to the Governator work:  One, you are just hoping Termie pulls a Sanford and holes up with a hot little number in a Latin American country while he’s purportedly hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.  This scenario would allow you to bail out of the marriage with a little grace and virtually no tarnish to your Kennedy identity.  Another theory is that you are simply a K.I.N.O. – that is, a Kennedy in Name Only.  Say it isn’t so, Maria.  To be a KINO would kinda of put you in the same league as Michael Skakel, although instead of a being a felon, you would simply be a sell out.  The final theory is that I guess you, um, love him and are committed to your marriage regardless of how his values seemingly fly in the face of yours.  Or at least what you say yours are.

So which is it, Maria.  If it’s the first,  we’ll stand by you.  I’ll buy another round and and provide you with the liquid courage to call Anderson Cooper – he’s a little young for you, but let’s face it – you are a cougar, a MILF, even.  You could have Anderson Cooper just as soon as you could have a Diet Coke.  If though, you actually love the Termie, I’ll still pick up the tab.  Just tell me why, because, honestly, I just don’t get it.