Kerry’s Pecker


When it comes to primal reporting, no one scoops Ana Marie Cox, the force behind She swims in the libidinal current of American politics. And unlike most denizens of the blogosphere—guys driven into earnest fits by an excess of testosterone—she finds it funny.

It would be wrong to say that wonkette has a crush on John Kerry, but she sure has a jones for his johnson. Not that she’s actually taken the measure of the man, as she giddily announced last week. This was a timely disclaimer, and a lot livelier than the one by Alexandra Polier that appeared in New York a few days later.

Polier, the young woman who got dragged into that Kerry-intern scandal last fall, penned her non-confession for a reputed five-figure fee. The money would have been better spent on wonkette. She’d never waste so many words proving that right-wing media will spread a juicy rumor about a liberal even if it’s false. Wonkette grasps what inquiring minds really want to know: How big is John?

It’s not a rhetorical question. Kerry’s handlers have done everything short of leaking a shower shot to project his pud. They’ve shown him toting a gun, seated him on a motorcycle (the ultimate surrogate phallus), and dressed him in loose-fitting but subtly clinging slacks that raise all sorts of expectations. Wonkette took the bait recently by running a picture of Kerry in his roomy attire. Then she did what the strategists hope your subconscious will: She circled the area from his crotch to just above his knee. With her prompting, you could make out the faint shape of a schlong that would belittle Johnny Wadd.

It was a stretch, to be sure. But as usual, wonkette had broached a major subliminal issue in this campaign. Al Gore ducked it in 2000 when he got Rolling Stone to airbrush his crotch in a cover photo. But Kerry can’t hide from the pressing question: Can a Democrat have a donkey dong?

That’s not the same as having brass balls, to use the old macho honorific. As we’re endlessly reminded (especially on this anniversary of D-Day), the measure of that mettle was endurance, courage under fire, and so on. Today it’s a more phallic trait: pissed-off aggression-what it takes to tame that bitch called the world. Kerry is betting that after four years of wham-bam-thank-you-Saddam, America is ready to diddle a dapper dude with a purple heart. The question is: Can he translate those credentials into a well-hung ‘tude?

It won’t be easy. For one thing, Kerry has to overcome the assumption that he’s pussy-whipped, since he comes from the party of feminism. It hardly helps that his wife isn’t willing to walk three steps behind her husband. The gossip about Kerry’s infidelity should help. It lends him an aura of endowment.

This is not to say that Kerry’s handlers Drudged up the intern rumor. But they’re operating on the assumption that macho can be carefully constructed. Under their aegis, Kerry has developed a sloe-eyed gaze and a lanky lope. Still, he’s got a way to go before his mien seems manly rather than dour. And there’s another problem.

Butch blue is Bush’s color, in suits or jeans. But Kerry’s summer wardrobe is Newport cream. Wonkette picked up on this unfortunate color scheme, observing last week that Kerry had introduced “his proposal for a new Pastel Terror Alert System, noting that recent events may raise the threat level from ‘Butter’ to ‘Mango.’ ”

This is a warning worth heeding. It’s time for Big John to bag some game, mount his bike, and show the voters that the bulge in his pants isn’t just a figment of the imagination. It’s a real fiction.