Flush twice, it’s a long way to Leavenworth.
Hard to believe, innit? Wasn’t it just the other day that we were all sitting in front of our TVs as the election returns began unfolding like the wings of a giant vampire bat, or maybe Rodan the Flying Monster, and we began discussing our options for the next four years?
“Ireland?”
“No, too damp. I’d start drinking again for sure.”
“Canada?”
“Too nice. We wouldn’t fit in. I wouldn’t, anyway.”
“Argentina?”
“Hey, if we wanted to while away the hours around a bunch of old Nazis we could just move back to Bibleburg.”
Now, suddenly, here we are, two weeks away from our last chance to chase Adolf Twitler and his Brown Noses out of the White House before they finish gutting the place like crackheads stripping a squat for its copper wire.
I was running a couple errands yesterday and took another glance at our neighborhood polling place as I passed. The line was even longer than on Saturday, this time stretching all the way around two sides of the strip mall and out of my sight as I barreled down Montgomery in the usual thundering herd of honking land yachts.
I chose to interpret this as a good sign. No, not the land yachts. The line. Angry people ring other people up, write letters to the editor, and vote.
I choose to hope — yes, there’s that word again — that this time the right people are angry for the right reasons.
Yeah, yeah, I know. “Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.”
Still, what the hell else can you do? Unless you like living in a Tom Waits song. …
