We have returned from the blood-red environs of Southwest Missouri, home of the pathologically self-interested-averse. Many a yardsign or bumper sticker my daughter and I passed which announced America's doom, because of a certain you-know-who's residence in the White House, the socialist bastard. It seems that if we as a conscientious, liberty-loving people don't act quickly, these United States could find themselves no longer the luxuriating land of milk and honey, as George W. so thoughtfully left them.
In our mostly unmindful absence I did bother noting the greater amplification of Newt's delusions of grandeur and the sensible skedaddling of Barney Frank. One trusts these eerie, x-trajectories of congressional careers bode nothing more than happenstance -- that the gods aren't playing with us ... again.
I'd go on, but I'm declaring this my seventh Day of Rest; I'm simply too well, momentarily at least, to think any further about American politics.