Rand Paul met me for breakfast at Mom's Country Cholesterol and Vegan Home Style Diner in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky. He ordered the “Extremely Conservative Breakfast”: red and blue berries in a plain, white yogurt and some tea. I had the “German Sampler”: eggs, goetta, potato pancakes, bratwurst, baked apples and toasted salt-rising bread with some black coffee.
Rand eyed my foreign dishes suspiciously as he explained to me how unfair President Obama is being to BP Oil, blackening their reputation and tarring them with responsibility for the explosion and spill. I was inspired to take another swig of the rich, thick coffee in front of me.
“It’s un-American,” insisted the Libertarian/Republican/Tea Partier Senatorial candidate. "And I think it's part of this sort of blame-game society in the sense that it's always got to be somebody's fault instead of the fact that maybe sometimes accidents happen," Paul said. “Just because BP may have been aware of safety problems doesn’t make then responsible.”
Paul was interrupted when Dewayne Ortiz, the owner of Mom’s, came over to our table. “You’re Rand Paul, aren’t you?”
Paul stood and extended his hand. “Yes, sir, I am. Thank you for a wonderful breakfast. I’d love to have your vote this November.”
“And I’d love for you to get out of my restaurant.”
“Yes you are, Mr. Paul. And I reserve the right to not serve sorry-ass racists in my establishment.”
“I am not a racist, sir. But I respect your right to refuse service to anyone who offends your personal sensibilities.” And to me he said. “Come on, I’m getting used to this. People want to blame me for the words that accidentally spilled out of my mouth.I can’t be held responsible for my loose grasp on the concept of fairness and equality.”
Dewayne saw me sadly eyeing my island of foodstuffs surrounded by a quickly cooling and coagulating puddle of grease still on my plate. He swiftly packaged it to go and sent us out the door. Rand turned to wave to him and didn’t notice the car weaving down the street, pursued by police with sirens blaring.
I dove out of the way, shielding my to-go carton, when the car suddenly jumped the curb and struck Paul, who was knocked against the wall and fell on the sidewalk. The driver looked aghast as he stumbled out of the car and knelt next to the fallen politician. Officers scrambled from their cruiser and threw the driver to the ground. “Sir,” they advised him, “you are under arrest for driving under the influence, reckless endangerment, failure to control your vehicle, and, possibly, manslaughter.”
Rand, endeavored to raise his head. “Oh, I’m fine,” he insisted, “and I request that you cease this unfair treatment of a free, white, citizen of America. Don’t blame him, don’t blame the bartender who over-served him, don’t blame the liquor companies. Accidents happen. It’s nobody’s fault. We live in this blame-game society, because of all the liberal, big-government bleeding hearts. It’s their fau … responsibility for this mess we’re in.”
Mr. Paul was rushed off to the hospital and I went home to finish my breakfast, with thoughts about civil rights and responsibility spilling out of my brain the rest of the day.