“He who drinks and walks away lives to drink another day.”
..Errol Flynn in “They Died With Their Boots On”

In Valhalla they’re already setting a place at the table for Senator Ted Kennedy. Valhalla, of course being where the immortals of epic combat reside, rewarded by a free, all expense paid trip to greatness on the wings of big breasted Valkyries. Think Wagnerian opera.

And when it comes to Ted Kennedy and the nectar of the Gods, Kennedy’s right up there with all the bar room legends- Frank Sinatra, Errol Flynn, Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Oliver Reed. And there’s more to come like Peter O’Toole, Roger Moore and Bill Clinton. [Drain that beezer and you’ll replace the Absolut reserves for the next century.]

And, of course, there’s Kennedy.

Kennedy already got his death sentence this week. He was told that he has inoperable brain cancer which affects the left parietal lobe, the part of the brain that affects the right side of the body. And to a drinker who’s right handed, this is devastating. So Kennedy will probably have to have his spirits served to him through a straw. That is, if he’s still imbibing.

Of course, there are stories that Teddy K straightened out his act and knocked off the sauce years ago. But this is a fantasy hard to grasp. Because the drinker can no more distance himself from the drink than the chronic masturbator can, his cock.

In 1990, GQ published a classic piece on Kennedy’s drinking habits, devoting paragraphs of colorful description to broken capillaries, active wine cellars, chronically aberrant social behavior and Kennedy’s being the terror of the posh D.C. restaurant La Brasserie where he was often seen downing a bottle of the ruby red vino in under 25 minutes.

Kennedy apologists might say he was boozing to forget Chappaquiddick – certainly the greatest escape trick of the 20th century, other than a handcuffed Houdini crawling out of a Siberian milk can.

Quotes GQ: “A recent dinner guest at Kennedy’s home recalls with similar amazement Kennedy’s guzzling three screwdrivers in one twenty-minutes period. “I was chugging to keep up with him,” the guest says. “I’ve drunk with the best of them, and he’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

And not to forget the drinking episode at a Palm Beach watering hole in 1991 where Kennedy invited his son Patrick and his nephew William Kennedy Smith to join him for a few drinks. Joining Teddy K for a few is like joining Jose Canseco and Roger Clemens for a couple of needles in the ass.

The events of that day figured heavily in rape charges brought against Smith. But Teddy K’s calmed down a bit since. Now he has no choice.

Richard Burton during his best of times, polished off at least a quart of Vodka a day. So did Flynn. Burton, drinking like the Welshman he was, was said to have been shit faced for every one of his 136 performances of Hamlet on Broadway.

And Sinatra, on an average, knocked off 36 Jack Daniels during the course of a day. This was by his own admittance.

Yeah, Valhalla’s the place you want to be where you can talk politics, sports, general nonsense and broads. The question is whether how soon Teddy K will be among the Gods sharing in the conversation.

“Thus, seamed with many scars
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!”
–Thus the tale ended.