Wimpy, disloyal, whiny, punk-a$$

Sometimes when I hear Joe Lieberman talk, all I can picture is a kid with asthma on the grammar school playground. He goes out to recess everyday but doesn’t play with his classmates because he is afraid he might have an attack. Instead of going out to the see-saw, or reading quietly up against the brick building, he wants to sit and ponder his Highlights Magazine right near the kickball field. Then he cries and whines to the “authorities” every time a kickball is in play because, “They are kicking and throwing it too close to me!!!”

The teachers monitoring recess spend 12-20 minutes every day cajoling and bribing him to “Come read near me,” to try and get Joe out of the way. Sometimes he pitches a fit and refuses to leave his reading perch on the first base line. Other times he finally agrees to come away when one of the staff produces a peanut-free granola treat. He has no diagnosed allergy to nuts, but it doesn’t stop him from barking at the authorities, “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!?” when their first offer is a fun-size package of Peanut M&Ms.

There are several shaded areas on the school side of the playground and Joe approaches the only occupied one, where an epileptic kid in Coke-bottle thick glasses is quietly playing with 12-sided dice. “This is my spot,” Joe is overheard whimpering, “I like to sit here when I am not over there.” He points to the kickball field. The recess monitors are about to intervene on behalf of the skinny kid that the other kids call, Spaz. But before they have the chance, to stop Joe’s bullying, the other boy rolls his eyes, grabs his dice, and heads for a quieter space.

Once he’s settled into his protected spot near the building, Joe removes a clean tissue from the Ziploc in his right pocket, dries his tears, and blows his nose with an air of indignant self-righteousness. The bell rings, and as kids crowd around the door attempting to get back to class, Joe stalls the line because he is in the middle of stashing his used snot rag in the ½ full Ziploc out of his left pocket labeled “dirty tissues.” Joe won’t move out of the way, won’t hold a soiled tissue in his bare hand, and he can’t walk and zip simultaneously. As he gets nervous, the bag-sealing process is further delayed. He blames the trouble he is having on the fact that there are “too many people- too close” to him and “They are not paying attention to what they are doing!” Finally, when a little girl in dreads reaches over in empathy and quickly seals the bag, Joe- lacking any gratitude or humility- loudly proclaims, “I could have done that all by myself!”