My Lefty mailing lists are starting to exhibit a heightened irritability, combined with a severe impairment of the ability to read and to think coherently. I conclude this must be an election year, and the Great Existential Dilemma looms yet again: do I fall once more into the loveless embrace of that poxed old whore, the Democratic Party, and arise from her insalubrious bed tainted and ashamed? Or do I forego la petite mort -- not a thing to be sneezed at, however dearly bought and squalid its scene -- and either seek satisfaction elsewhere, or, what the hell, sublimate for once?
I feel for the poor folk who agonize over this question. I wish I could endue them with my own sublime indifference to the old trollop's shopworn charms. American elections seem about as compelling to me as the fortieth season of the Mary Tyler Moore Show.
To be sure, there are outcomes that would be fun. For example, say half the marks infected four years ago with folie d'Obie are intelligent enough this year to stay home. That would set me to baring my awful old fangs in a grotesque rictus of Saturnine mirth.
Can I hope?