Most politicians live in a fantasy land. Witness the presidential campaign of Texas Governor Rick Perry. Or for that matter, his most ardent supporter—Louisiana Governor Bobby (Smarty Pants) Jindal, who was among the first to endorse the leader of his neighboring state, and may be the last to leave Perry’s rapidly sinking ship. More accurately, an uncrowded row boat.

Governor Smarty Pants claims he is sticking with Perry out of loyalty. My hunch is that Jindal hangs on in an effort to get television face time as a background distraction in the campaign, and to continue accumulating frequent flyer miles by following the candidate around the country.

As an Ivy League graduate and Rhodes Scholar, Jindal must recognize the futility of Perry’s candidacy. Smarty Pants probably figures that being in close proximity to the national media will result in an occasional interview and boost his ambitions of a job that will get him the hell out of Louisiana and away from the mess he created in a matter of four painful years.

Jindal is not the first deluded Louisiana Governor. Indeed, former Governor Buddy Roemer was on Tuesday’s New Hampshire ballot. After moving to the state and campaigning for several months, he received a grand total of 919 votes—joining Rick Perry as the only candidates receiving fewer than one percent of the ballots cast.

Buddy’s last campaign before declaring his candidacy for President was twenty years ago. As an incumbent,  he ran third to Ku Klux Klanner David Duke and prison-destined scalawag Edwin Edwards, who was elected for his third of four gubernatorial terms.

And speaking of Edwards, his name should be a synonym for self-deception—a conclusion that was re-enforced in my mind after reading his “authorized biography” written by Leo Honeycutt and released in late 2010. In the interest of accuracy, I should say the book was typed by my friend, Leo, since it is mainly an account of Edwards’ distorted perspective on his record as Louisiana’s Governor—sixteen years that were not totally devoid of accomplishments.

But Edwards’ achievements were clouded by serious ethical shortcuts and other major misdeeds—a few that I exposed. His arrogance was so outrageous that a hanging judge and ambitious federal prosecutors railroaded him into prison on bogus charges by concealing exculpatory evidence and deceiving jurors. In effect, Edwards was retroactively convicted of thumbing his nose at government investigators in years past. We reap what we sow, especially if we laugh about our sins.  

The fantasies of Louisana governors makes me suspicious that there is something in the water at the governor’s mansion that causes delusions of grandeur and omnipotence. Edwards believed he was above accountability. Jindal expects to be Vice President someday, perhaps even President. And Buddy Roemer hallucinates about the presidency, although a friend of mine theorizes his candidacy is being recorded as part of a television reality show that exposes the farce of modern day politics. Buddy’s a casual friend and I hope that explains the inexplicable.

Throughout Louisiana’s history, governors have engaged in varying degrees of narcissism. Before an assassin’s bullet brought him down, Huey P. Long—the Kingfish—had his eyes focused on the White House. His stripper cavorting brother, Governor Earl Long, believed he was invisable.

As far as I know, Huey’s son, the late U.S. Senator Russell Long, had no ambitions to run for President. However, he shared his daddy’s grandiosity and talent for deception—characteristics I observed first hand at the infamous 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. On Sunday evening prior to the convention, I attended the reception for Louisiana delegates in hopes of snagging radio interviews while freeloading at the open bar—not necessarily in that order.

Senator Long was among the first people I encountered at the gathering and when I thrust a microphone in his face, he said, “You shouldn’t question me. You need to talk to the next Vice President of the United States.” Long then grabbed my arm and led me across the room to interview Louisiana Governor John McKeithen.

There had, in fact, been speculation about a southern governor being on the ticket of Vice President Hubert Humphrey, the eventual nominee. Both Long and McKeithen were Humphrey classmates at LSU in 1940-41 when he studied for a Masters Degree and taught political science part-time.

A few months earlier, the Vice President spent the night at Governor’s Mansion following a speech before the Louisiana AFL-CIO. I interviewed Humphrey the next morning and he said nothing to disabuse me of the gossip. Like contemporary reporters covering GOP primaries this year, my colleagues and I were all struck dumb by rumors.

Senator Long’s comment at the reception about the “next Vice President” made me particularly vulnerable to brain freeze. And I forgot all the obstacles in McKeithen’s path to national office. Louisiana was then in the midst of two major legislative investigations—one focusing on mafia influence on state government, the other dealing with widespread labor racketeering. And race relations were so volatile in Louisiana that McKeithen bought thirty minutes of network air time to assure the nation that citizens loved black folks—just so long as they didn’t go to school with white kids or try to swim in white-only public pools.

Obviously, McKeithen did not receive the VP nomination. Turns out that Russell Long was jerking him around at the behest of Senator Humphrey, who hoped his colleague could keep the Louisiana delegation in line during debates of controversial platform issues, civil rights being most notable. By Wednesday morning, McKeithen realized he had been had and hopped a plane back to New Orleans. Upon landing, he gave a law and order speech denouncing the chaos in Chicago.

It was an embarrassment to McKeithen. But given the action of successors, he may have gotten ultimate revenge by poisoing the water at the mansion so that future governors would also make fools of themselves.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger: A Saga of Exposing TV Preachers, Corrupt Politicians, Right-Wing Lunatics…and Me is available at amazon.com, soft-cover or Kindle and at independent bookstores like the Cottonwood in Baton Rouge. It offers $19.99 worth of laughs and much more. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) investigative reporting career. jblisscamp@aol.com.