May some theories rest in conspiratorial peace

You can forever count on a group of frowning Americans who love conspiracy theories.  Back in 1993, its was the suicide of  White House deputy counsel Vince Foster, a victim of depression, that led some misguided   theorists to the doorstep of Hillary Clinton as the perp when Bill was president. Some of the talk even reached the Summit County  Republican high command.

And what of all of the books and articles by those theorists who believed that there was much more to John Kennedy's assassination than the mainstream press would ever dare  tell you?  I got it from one of these  birds first hand in a guarded interview with a national doubter  in a Columbus hotel room.

Elvis Presley?  Dead at only 42. Was it really a cover-up of his drug addiction when an autopsy strongly  suggested that he died of  constipation.

And now we must deal with the conspiracists in the wake Antonin Scalia's demise in the utter privacy of a   Texas ranch.  If Barack Obama's fingerprints were not all over the justice's passing, then surely Hillary had provided  the poison. No autopsy?   Well, now.

  Is he really dead?  Careful, there.  After it was widely reported that Ernest Hemingway had died in a small-plane crash in Uganda,  Time magazine told us that the macho author popped out of the jungle with a "bunch of bananas and a bottle of gin." Way to go,  Papa!

Theorize how that was possible,  theorists of the world!