A Beautiful Mine by RJD2 plays.
Let’s analyze why the Kennedys suck shit at sex.
Possibly none of them should have ever been born if there’s reincarnation. Poor sods. But God knows.
Let’s pull the trigger.
The Kennedys versus reality.
Get It (Instrumental) by RJD2 plays.
(Adult content below)
Kick walks in struttin’ her stuff.
Her ugly body vainly believes it’s A GOD.
She grins high as a kite inside. Just like all of the sad, pathetic Kennedys do. It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so evil.
She waltzes up to thee Billy Cavendish who’s sitting on a sofa waiting. Waiting.
She straddles him.
Okay. That’s sexy. Maybe we’re in business. Right?
Well…don’t get your hopes up.
Billy smiles sexily. And then coiled like a caterpillar feasting on a leaf she slovenly contorts her head, neck and shoulders as she leans in for a kiss. Or rather leans down for a kiss. It’s weird how her chin disappears and becomes a bump between her neck and her ugly face. And perhaps to some people it would be forgivable except for the fact that she’s so vain about it. She still think she hot shit, if she even cognitively has enough humility to fathom the concept of being hot shit. So…whatever that is exactly…we can safely say it’s not sexy.
Billy chooses to ignore it. But Kathleen can sense he’s repulsed and covering. So she tries to laugh. And because he loves her she’s spoiled and made stupid because they’re being foolish and evil, in a way. She assumes she can go on blindly in her vanity because she’s loved by her husband and he’s got her covered, so to speak.
Billy decides Kathleen is total moron when it comes to sex. But she doesn’t realize that, as he’s kind and British and gentlemanly and he doesn’t want to hurt her.
And yes…her chin disappeared some when she tried to laugh sexy for him too. Sexy in a very 1940’s way. You’ve possibly seen it in period films. Like Gosford Park.
Anyway, he throws her backward onto a sofa. He’s on top. And we’ll pause it there for now.
What rating can we give this sex scene? It’s a 4 or 5 out of 10. But 5 is pushing it.
Probably a 4?
So why is it so repulsive? Because she’s SO VAIN. She thinks she is…THEE shit. And she’s not. She’s an ugly, selfish, worthless moron by choice. Using her Irish heritage and immense wealth to gain both sympathy and power over a possibly innocent man who might have been a good person. Was he a kind man? A good man? Then why did he have to be saddled down by that crap thing out of Hell? Ewww.
He’s actually possibly capable of decent sex. How sad. Maybe not like…rockstar sex, so to speak…but…decent enough.
Here comes some cool, fresh air.
A Beautiful Mine by RJD2 plays.
Close-up of the hallway in Mad Men. Joan walks down the hallway in her perfect outfit. Well…that’s not quite true. Her clothes were always a little proportionally off. She’s curvy and that’s lovely but it was too much. It was too much emphasis on her curves in a bulbous, bulky way. And if that’s sexy to men than okay. But…in all actuality it’s gross looking. She needed a tailor not a vacuum sealer like she’s a potted plant in cellophane. Poor dear. I like to think the real Joan knew better.
Anyway…Joan walks by. That’s what Mad Men does. They show quick scenes of Joan.
And then…some other random people walk around too. Mad Men does that too. It was supposed to give the feeling of “a real office” but it’s still very contrived. Have these people never been in a highfalutin office? I have many times. Truly. Not as a prostitute like you want to think, haters. No, I grew-up in one in a way. My father who raised me was a secretary to the CEO’s secretary, Marie. They’re busy. …But they’re not constantly busy. And…there’s a certain deadness to those hallways. Real death. Even if you can sense activity anxiously waiting to burst out of a door any millisecond. No…it’s a feeling of wealth. A beautiful, cool, wealth.
F. Scott Fitzgerald describes the coolness of wealth in The Great Gatsby. And it is. It’s a real cool breeze.
Yum.
And yet…the desperately sad truth for folks like me who were born into real old money is that while we’re alive that wealth cradles us, shelters us SO WELL that we genuinely fear Hell. We fear. We fear Hell. It’s TERRIFYING. And is that good? It can be. Yes. But…it can also ruin your life. Because…you get so scared. Secretly. All of the time.
Especially when your parents don’t love you enough. Or at all. Because you aren’t cradled by them. You’re cradled by steel, marble, plaster, old hardwoods…crystal…velvet and the best Earth. And so you think…as you’re sitting in a posh…perfectly lit bathroom…on the 20th floor…”If this fell to the ground…I’d not even care…I’m so at ease. …The sounds of the radio eventually ceasing. And certainly I’d be quickly crushed. In a rather silly, dusty, dark death. But…then what!???” Why? Because you’re not necessarily really loved. And…”Rich people go to Hell.” is supposedly what Jesus said. Right? Or was He misquoted? No. That’s impossible. No…the detailed nuance of His words are often missed, perhaps. Or something. So then what!? Well…you think to yourself, “So I’m going to go to Heaven based on probable detailed nuance?” And you scoff. Why? Because who understands detailed nuance? And you’re so beaten-up and viciously attacked inside by the millions of poor people who HATE you…that your brain feels like maybe…their souls mean more to God than yours does…or something. At least in America. And then your brain collapses. Because you’re too tired and unloved or too murdered from the inside out by evil. So you hold yourself in a sitting-up fetal position in a neat-as-a-pin bathroom stall on the floor…that’s empty…and then…feel so alone. SO ALONE. The posh walls hovering over you. And you suddenly feel…what!? As if the walls themselves…LOVE YOU. Do they? Can they? Ask God.
You stand-up and walk out of the bathroom. You decide your parents do love you and you’re being melodramatic and silly. And if God allows it…maybe it was the bathroom itself that lied and told you that just to get you to stop crying inside…as it hugged you. And maybe…you return their in your spirit as you grow-up and realize the bathroom cared a great bit more than your old money parents did.
“We don’t use bathrooms for sex. Or drugs. Necessarily.” says Louis Hill Junior. “We do use them for crying. And other things. And they do have to be kept totally sanitized and that includes the air.”
“Otherwise it’s just nonsense.” says Lacey. “Like being out in the woods.”
“Not that we don’t love the forests.” says Louis.
“You can always tell the class of a building or it’s decency by the bathrooms?” says Lacey.
“Possibly!” says Lem.
The Perfect Girl by Mareux plays.
“There are no perfect girls.” says Lacey. “There are no perfect people. But God can make us perfect in Christ.”
Lacey grabs the beat of The Perfect Girl if she’s Scotia and gives it back to Christ. It sounds better. Not stupid. Get a fucking intellectual grip!!
The song ends.
The Numbers by Radiohead plays.
Lacey sees Lane or is it Lem? Sitting in his office. Behind his desk.
A Dave Matthews song plays in the background. She hates Dave Matthews on a personal level. If you like it, it might be cool. But she hates it. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard for her to listen to. Literally. She fells like she’s being molested and made to have seizures when she listens to it. Ha! …But…for some reason lots of people love it? Hopefully that’s safe. For them and Dave Matthews.
The Last Resort by Trentemøller plays.
“YOU ARE NOT COOL!!!” yells a French artist who makes childish, dull, shit art. He yells it at Egypt. Especially Ancient Egypt. He yells it at Dartmouth and Dr. Treb Allen. He yells it at ALL of Great Britain. And Russia. He’s an arrogant, STUPID, toothless peasant in his self-pitying spirit. He thinks he’s an Elliott Roosevelt type when in reality his $700,000 house…is all he has. He’s a fool. And Lacey pities his deaf, backward soul.
“Why don’t you want to have pity for my wife?” asks the man who looks like Lane. “Hasn’t she earned it!?”
“NO!!” he yells on behalf of himself and the Kennedys.
“Why?” asks Lane or Lem.
“She’s got to be fake!!!” he yells.
“She’s not.” says the CIA.
“Nope! Because this WOULD NEVER HAPPEN!!” he yells.
“What’s happening?” asks a reader.
“Rich people are real? And I’m not innately superior to them somehow?” he says. “I mean…I genuinely assumed we were all profoundly superior…TO ALL of them.”
“Why?” asks the 20th Century.
“Ahha! It’s you!!!” he yells. He thinks. Sighs. Smiles. “Yes!!! You told us that.”
Sally’s Song by Universal Hall Pass plays.
“They’d never fuck to this music.” says The Toothless Frenchman.
“No. I’m not Sally.” says Lacey.
“I’m not seducing Sally.” says Lane.
“I think my family’s poverty just feels too real. And I was lied to by the 20th Century that…it wasn’t real anymore.” says The Toothless Frenchman. “In your defense my art might be better than that. But I understand you’re being suffocated.”
“I’m doing my best.” says Lacey.
“I hear you.” he says. “DAMMIT.”
“Anyway…” says Lem. “Listen to how creepy the beginning of that song is.”
The music starts in the song.
“They perverted real music.” says Lacey.
Marieta by Sierra Maestra plays.
“This is too fast. Too upbeat.” says Lacey.
Lacey and Lane or Lem in disguise (this time) sit in a “Mexican restaurant” in an episode of Mad Men…
Don gathers everyone together. Stands-up while everyone else sits. At the table. And says, “Today…I had an epiphany.
*He smiles brightly. Looks possibly genuinely happy.*
There’s always room at the top!” he says. Then he blinks, drunk and steadies himself with the chair and the top of the wooden table as he sits down.
Somewhat drunk and deciding to ignore him as he’s drunk the office is quiet. They ponder what he’s possibly getting at.
Watermelon Man plays.
“It’s loud here.” Lane or Lem says, leaning forward across the table to Lacey.
She instantly knows he’s coming on to her…possibly. She’s been working there for two months. As a secretary of sorts to Roger. She’s Pete’s distant cousin from Minnesota. Not that distant but they’re something like second cousins twice removed on his father’s mother’s side. And she met him through her grandmother Banks. In Maine. In 1932. And they instantly became friends. Nothing sexual or romantic. Really. No. He was being bullied and she cleverly found a way for him to escape with his dignity intact. And he decided they were actual friends even though she’s a girl.
But in this version of reality…it’s a bit different because Lacey was raised by Tom. And she was loved. Her personality is intact. She’s just…not crushed. Now she’s crushed because it turns out her parents really didn’t love her. But in this version of reality they actually do and did and so…she’s just…alone as opposed to her life being close to actual Hell in some ways.
Guajira con Soul as performed by Johnny Ventura plays.
Lane-or-Lem talks to another person. Lacey looks to Roger Sterling for direction as she can’t figure out what she’s supposed to be doing at this point. She looks around. Feels stupid. She stands-up, slightly drunk, looks around the room and is instantly painfully bored. She studies the room. Her father owns The Casablanca so she has a great bit of knowledge and experience when it comes to nightclubs and restaurants. He also owned The Blue Lagoon. She analyses the location of the doors. The lighting. The flooring. The tables. The overall layout.
She decides this restaurant is…not bad. But it could be….far better. She opens her handbag and pulls out three sticks of gum. Puts them in her mouth all at once. To entertain herself. And so there she stands loudly and purposefully obnoxiously chewing her gum with her mouth open. Because why not? How fun. You’re not supposed to chew gum that way in public but nobody seems to be paying any attention to her at all so she finds it far too difficult to resist.
A waiter stops and stares at her.
She stares back.
She smiles politely.
Lacey is genuinely very sexy and elegant and well-bred and elegant and so she’s quite a sight standing there…at a table of sitting men OBNOXIOUSLY chewing her gum in a thoughtful daze. Just examining the room causally. Chill.
Don sees her and doesn’t know what to do or say or think. He looks panicked and disoriented and disturbed. He calms himself and thinks. Frozen in shock. She doesn’t notice.
Then out of the blue, “Would you sit down!!” yells Lem or Lane, loudly at her.
She’s hurt but she doesn’t know what else to do but go on. So she refuses to sit down.
He walks over to her and looks at her. Wraps his arm around her, possibly expecting her to be shocked by it. She’s not. She tries to be patient.
With a patronizing smile he says, “You need to sit down.”
She tries not to laugh in his face.
She closes her eyes.
Calms herself.
“Make me!!” she says, calmly and primly.
“Make you!?” he says, scoffing.
She glares up into his eyes. “That’s right. MAKE ME.“
“Oh dear God!!” he says.
She leans forward and drinks her g & t. She collects herself.
“My father owns shit like this you fucking jackass peasant.” she says. Then she politely laughs at him. Waits. Analyzes.
Shaking, he can’t speak.
“Don’t kill yourself. I think you’re needed.” says Lacey. Then she wanders off.
Lane stands in shock. Frozen.
Lacey goes to the stage and analyses the sound system. And the acoustics. What the fuck else is there to do?
Lane stands in shock still.
Tumbao plays.
Lane walks over and touches her shoulder lightly. She ignores him.
“You need…a spanking.” says Lane in her ear.
She turns around with a genuinely disgusted expression. Glares at him violently.
“I’m not a child!!!” she says.
Lane collects himself. “I’m trying to sound sexy.”
“Oh!” says Lacey.
“To you.” he says.
“Are you a sociopath?” asks Lacey, sincerely.
Lane thinks. “No! I’ve heard men say that.”
“That’s sick.” says Lacey. “When and where?”
He laughs. “In the office.”
“To whom?” asks Lacey.
“Lots of women.” he says.
“I’m not like them.” says Lacey, kindly. “Say! Why don’t you bring me home?”
And at that he begins kissing her neck. Holding her close to him. Overcome by him she writhes as politely as possible, because she realizes they’re in public.
God decides time.
Don’t forget that.
You’re far more at His mercy than you think.
Daydreaming by Radiohead plays.
He goes for her mouth with his mouth. And at that he pauses and stares at her. “Do you want this?”
“Do I want this!? What’s this!?” says Lacey.
“I want to take you in my arms and fuck the shit out of you.” says Lane.
Lacey thinks.
“Do you like it here?” she says.
He stands and closes his eyes and laughs. Focuses on breathing.
“I’m going to take you home. …And if I can focus on…anything…” he says, suddenly holding her. He calms himself. “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”
“Eggs.” says Lacey.
“With toast.” he says.
She thinks. Closes her eyes. Overwhelmed.
“Let’s go home.” he says.
And at that Joe Kennedy Junior collapses in tears because…they served God together. Him and Lacey. And it wasn’t sexual. It was just…fun in war. Tossing bombs. Planning. Stuff like that. And it’s heartbreaking to think of losing her.
“Joe…that’s a MOMMY.” says a reader.
“My mom didn’t play games like that with us. Like…cool war stuff.” says Joe.
“Joe. It’s too late, but don’t worry!! If you don’t go to Hell there are other mummys.” says Lem.
“God has to save him.” says Lacey. “I’m not his mother.“
“No. We, the Kennedys, ruined that.” says JP Kennedy.
Back at the Mexican restaurant Lacey and Lane stand together. “Let’s go!” says Lane.
Lacey laughs. “Hold on. I want to make an announcement.” she says.
“NO!” says Lane, laughing.
Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor Rich Man Poor Man Begger Man Thief plays.
“I don’t want to ruin you. But I’m SO BORED.” says Lacey.
“Alright.” he says, with some restrained worry.
She marches over primly, more like languidly tip toes like she’s floating on air, and then lands in front of them all. She grabs a glass and pulls out a fork and hits it.
Roger cracks-up laughing.
“I’m off to have sex. With Lane Pryce. I’m quite sure he has working male genitalia. If he doesn’t I’ll be sure to let you know tomorrow. Have a lovely night, all!” says Lacey. Then she prances lightly off.
Megan smiles. She thinks it’s cool. She laughs to herself. She loved the idea.
“Don!! What did we do with that speech?” asks Roger.
The song plays.
Keen to Cross the Pond 