"Yes it is, commie."
Except this blog most of the time these days.
What can I say. I hate the political process. No, really, I do. Yet it, unfortunately, is as necessary as both air and water, whether we like it or not -- and if we're honest with ourselves, we don't, save for you insane junkie types who go past hanging on every minute of Russertapalooza and the tidal wave of online screeds and daily, nay, hourly, blog postings; you know who you are. Get some help, quick -- since its slimy tendrils have long slithered their way into every facet of existence, threatening to choke off the oxygen to our brains so that we mindlessly spend our evenings and Sunday mornings watching talking hairpieces and bitching about superdelegates, institutionalized torture, a neverending story of fraud and corruption, spineless opposition parties, a willfully supine press corps, bowling and shots of whiskey, preachers, teachers and Ricky Feacher -- sorry, a momentary Brown-out -- the falling dollar and how we're going to pay for little Susie's doctor bills all while throwing various and sundry objects at our televisions in the hope that one, just one, of them will defy the laws of physics and muss up the well-coiffed plastic skulls of those overpaid automatons.
En plus, its inherent trainwreck status makes it extremely difficult to concentrate solely on things that don't make us want to upchuck our raisin bran -- go on, try avoiding it for any length of time, I dare you -- and since I, like you -- don't deny it -- am a selfish bastard, I'd much rather be composing some more bad verse, doing my best impression of Satan gurgling hydrochloric acid while filtering my simmering rage through some Scandinavian death metal or fighting off tears like John Boehner as I lose myself in a Haydn string quartet.
But there it is.
Staring back from the shadows with its blank, bloodshot eyes dangling beneath a wizened, withered brow, uncounted thoughts of the most heinous evil clang sharply in the deepest, blackest caverns of its eternal -- until the sun goes red giant, anyway -- mind. If you listen close, you can hear them, biding their time. Waiting with the most perfect patience. Waiting for the next human error -- and it will come. Waiting to open its dripping jaws, our shivering souls exposed to the yawning abyss of madness, to be devoured, to be no more.
It is impossible for homo sapiens to ever reach a collective state of blissful tulip frolicking, and no matter how much long overdue and vitally necessary tweaking and de-monkey wrenching we do to our utterly fucked-up system, it'll still fall squarely in the camp of suck, for there is no more flawed variable in any equation one can conceive of than the variable of humanity in politics.
I haven't done a politically-themed post in awhile, so in order to rectify such an egregious oversight, let me go on, not a rant as such -- that's been taken care of above, in an aimless way, as it turned out -- but a
quiet declaration of personal beliefs formulated from years of careful consideration of the issues list of things I'm right on, so kindly shut your contradictory noisehole:
Your candidate sucks.
So does yours.
The Maverick® is a fucking lunatic.
We're addicted to oil and that will never change until it becomes so scarce that we're forced to don ridiculous, poorly cobbled together S&M outfits while sporting bad haircuts as we jet across the irradiated landscape in rickety, steam-and-rubber-band-powered vehicles to kill our closest neighbors who I'm sure have a vast stockpile of the crude and who are dozens of miles away because everyone in between had died long ago from the virulent plague the government had no answer for because we're peons but just like during the Black Death, they too felt they would be immune from heaven's wrath, unlike those filthy, sinful serfs (hubris, like stupidity and death, never absent from the human condition) and so refused to formulate any kind of effective countermeasure so all one sees in the vast emptiness of the eerily vacant American landscape are rotting, abandoned buildings whose rubble, along with the miscellaneous detritus of a dead civilization, is infested with disease-carrying vermin and pustule-saturated flesh hanging and about to drop off the toxin-bleached bones of carcass after carcass strewn along the cracked, weathered highways into the endless sea of dust that stretches all the way to the Canadian border where, once beyond, one can buy cheap, yet quality, goods, relax with some herb, curb your newfound hunger at a Tim Hortons, watch hockey on the holograph, take a leisurely stroll through the wind and solar energy parks, finishing up with a smiling saunter past the sun-dappled granite of the International Polar Bear Musuem to enjoy a refreshing dip in the iceless, no-longer-Arctic Ocean.
But that's not for awhile yet. I'm going to go watch some teevee.
I think Hardball is on.