Okay, I admit it. I snuck over to GQ.com and read the entire ten pages of “Hello, America, My Name is Rielle Hunter,” even though I try to keep my nose out of tabloid-esque reportage, particularly if the headline implies a blond mistress, a clueless albeit sympathetic wife and a passel of children, including a baby.
I especially don’t relish the falling of politicians from their lofty perches. See, I already know they are untrustworthy and full of crap, and if they have JD and Esquire after their names, you know that they are slithering just below used car salesman on the food chain.
Don’t get me wrong; I liked John Edwards before the dung hit the fan. Who wouldn’t like a fresh-faced, handsome, energetic and rich bastard who wants to be President of the United States? (Ms. Hunter raises hand and waves maniacally.) There are, however, occasions when the “Other” Woman should fade to black, and this sad situation screams one of those times. It is clear Ms. Hunter wants to extend her fifteen minutes of (in)fame(y) to a longer stretch in history. Rielle Hunter wants to introduce herself to America, but in this case, the first impressions leave a rotten aftertaste in one’s mouth.
First off, there is something more than slightly disturbing about the accompanying GQ photo shoot, featuring a pants-less Ms. Hunter cuddling up with a bed full of stuffed toys, tossing the photographer that “come hither” look. Good God, woman! Barney the purple dinosaur was prominently featured in the photo! You know the world has fallen into an abyss and the end is near when some hotshot editor gives the red light to pictures bordering on perverted. These shots were right up there with those unfortunately weird Miley Cyrus photos from last year. Did we really need to see John Edwards’ mistress’s belly button? I would have still lived a long and meaningful life had I passed.
Ms. Hunter’s paramour might be up for a Federal indictment. It appears that may be illegal to use campaign funds to play sugar daddy. (Imagine that?) The Mistress seems unaware of where her unlimited bankroll was coming from.
As for the article, the question and answer session by Lisa Depaulo, though not exactly political in nature, was strangely riveting, akin to driving by a massive wreck and being unable to avert your eyes. I not only looked, I drove right into danger.
The more I read about how poor Johnny Edwards’ life had been (a living hell thanks to his manipulative and controlling yet terminally ill wife), the angrier I became. The angrier I got, the more I wanted to read to the end and see whether or not this home wrecker had any redeeming qualities. (The short answer: NO.)
Ms. Hunter, like many an “Other” woman before her, feels justified in relentlessly pursuing a married man. It’s “okay” to cheat if it’s in the name of love, animal magnetism and hot sex. While she claims to have sympathy for Elizabeth Edwards, some of Ms. Hunter's responses slant to the other direction, especially when she uses terms like "dysfunctional," "toxic," "awful," "in denial" and "abusive" to describe The Wife.
All this leads me to ask, “Why?” Why, Johnny Reid Edwards? Why play the marriage game if you’re not into it? John Edwards (and Gary Hart, and Bill Clinton, and Tiger Woods, and Kwame Kilpatrick before him, the list goes on and on ad nauseum) could have easily gotten a divorce before sticking their wickets outside of the marital bed. If his life was that awful and abusive, I would have thought he'd have the good sense to dump Elizabeth years ago.
I would never want to condemn anyone to a loveless marriage. If you’re a public figure, try using your own money to finance your skanky ho. If the dalliance was a one-time faltering, the result of the onset of a second childhood or MEN-opause, how about keep it private? Some people may relish this type of public humiliation, but take my word for it, there are plenty of us who don’t like it one bit.
This glimpse into Ms. Hunter's life and the explanation to her side of the affair does her no favors. I'm no prude, but I fear for those who will take from this interview that it's quite all right to mess with a married man. I feel badly for the children involved, but there's no way I feel sorry for Rielle Hunter or John Edwards.
After finishing the article, I felt dirty, like I’d just eaten a hairball the size of an orange. I have no one to blame but myself. I knew what I was doing when I opened the web page. After a good, hot shower, a vigorous tooth brushing and half a bottle of Nyquil, I might wake up tomorrow a normal human being again.
No thanks to Rielle Hunter.