Kennedy's Genes

Imagine what a headache it would be if you had to believe that the death of John Kennedy, Jr. was the result of murder instead of an accident - you’re still not finished figuring out the assassination of his father, and now this! Well relax, because apparently I’m the only one saying it. Just think of me as the headache, that’s the way to solve it.

Preface
As usual, I shall preface my “surprise revelation” with a brief reference to what should already be known about me. Is it necessarily egocentric or delusional to perceive that things have reached a point where voluminous research of oneself by others has approached the realm of essential knowledge? There happen to be quite a few people in this category throughout history who are neither egocentric nor delusional. On the other hand, a corrupt informational system could leave you believing that Mickey Mouse is the only being you need knowledge of. I’m sorry, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.

While it is not spelled out in the most simple terms, it has been spelled out (i.e., verifiable), by things found in the work of Spielberg, McCartney and many others, that I am secretly an influence (and have been for a considerable amount of time). Furthermore, you will not find anyone with the degree of secret importance that I possess.

Proper recognition of the truth of this statement then leads to having to seriously consider a number of heavy things (here’s where you’ll hold me responsible for giving you a headache, and insist to others that a “don’t go there” warning sign be erected). For example, if I say that I’ve seen enormous amounts of evidence that my apartment is bugged, in light of the fact that I am secretly important, this should not register as an outlandish statement.

The President’s Son
In July 1999, within a 24-hour period of the death of John F. Kennedy, Jr., at some point prior to his death, well before there was any news in relation to it, I was alone in my apartment. To hear myself think above the various sounds aimed at my space by God knows who, I was speaking out loud to myself, following a concept.

George W. Bush at this point in time was at the very least being considered by Republicans as a potential presidential candidate, if he was not already. Apropos of this, I started conjecturing about how people tend to feel when they encounter the fully matured offspring of those they know or knew. That there can exist a curiosity borne out of a sense of the wonder of it all, regarding the question of which genetic characteristics are perceivable as remnants from the previous generation. How have certain characteristics been refined, or perhaps corrupted. Is there some special filter that caused the offspring to retain the familiar yet merge it with something new. How this must recurringly be, since people began, a fascinating thing to focus on, not invariably, but depending on the nature of the similarities. And how the nature of George W. Bush’s resemblance to his father, the former president, might prove to be of such a variety as to potentially lend itself to exploitation for political gain. Or at the very least, it could have some kind of political impact.

Less than a day later the son of President Kennedy was dead. Eventually it was determined that it was an accident. You have everyone’s permission to believe that, so go ahead, believe that. Death may be final, but the findings of those who ruled Kennedy’s death an accident, in my book, are not.