Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson.

I read in the News recently that the Prime Minister, or ‘1st Minister’ of Northern Ireland – Mr. Robinson, has had to step down over scandal involving his wife. It seems the wife had an affair with a teenager. 

What well known 1967 movie springs to mind? Right! ‘The Graduate’ starring a very young Dustin Hoffman, as Benjamin Braddock and a much older Ann Bancroft as the infamous Mrs. Robinson. Like her fictional counterpart, the real Mrs. Robinson couldn’t resist a romp in bed with a guy the same age as her son. This young lad must have performed well because Mrs. Robinson borrowed 50,000 pounds to set this ‘2010 Benjamin’ up in his own cafe. The 1st Minister, initially denied reports in the tabloids, that his wife was literally reenacting Mike Nichols’ classic movie. However, as more revelations became clear, Mr. Robinson had no choice but to admit his wife was indeed, a naughty girl and therefore, was forced to stand-down.

And what of Mrs. Robinson? Well, she is undergoing psychiatric evaluation. It seems the doctors want to find out if the lady is losing her marbles. Her husband also, is probably wondering what he did, or didn’t do, that caused his wife to go out and find a young rooster. You don’t need a Harvard Law Degree to know that the marriage is over. Wife will leave the hospital and return to the Robinson manor. Husband will smile for the hundreds of paparazzi that follow her home and will, quite possibly, put a reassuring arm around her shoulder – a show of forgiveness for the flashing cameras. Inside the manor however, will be a completely different story.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Mr. Robinson, will yell, “I find it incomprehensible that you would want to screw a teenager!”

Mrs. Robinson will sit quietly on the sofa listening to her husband’s tirade. He’ll ask questions, but there are no answers.

“Haven’t I looked after you all these years?” he’ll say, shaking his head in disbelief, “Did you for one minute…even one second, consider me? Did you ever think that perhaps fucking this kid was fucking me!?” He’ll thump his own chest for emphasis. He’ll then walk to the window and look out at the manicured gardens and mumble to himself for a few minutes before turning back to look at his wife.

“You know what people think of you, don’t you? They think you’re a whore! They think you’re some sort of mentally challenged nymphomaniac. I’m incline to agree with them. Jesus. H Christ on a popsicle stick, what were you thinking?!”

He’ll walk to the fireplace and warm his hands.

“Well, that’s it! I’m divorcing you. You can move out in a couple of days. In the meantime, I’ll move to another place in the city until you’ve packed your fucking bags.”

He’ll storm out of the room and out of the house. He’ll climb behind the wheel of his Jaguar, reverse out of the garage and with spinning tires, take off down the driveway. As he turns onto the highway, he’ll flick on the radio and hear Simon and Garfunkel sing, “And here’s to you Mrs. Robinson, heaven holds a place for those who pray, hey, hey, hey, God bless you please Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know, oh woe, woe.”


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