Saturday, August 23, 2008



Yes, I still consider myself to be retired, and you're all probably gone, anyway, but the events of the recent day have me twitching afresh.

It's all this blabla about McCain's seven --or eight-- homes and wealthy wife Cindy being campaign tools for showing America that McCain is out of touch with us ordinary folk.

Of course he's out of touch with us plebeians! And do we care? No! We don't want anyone who is in touch with us. After all, we are not in touch with ourselves. We are collectively dumb enough to wish that we had seven homes, too.

Our celebrity-crazed culture is founded on our essential disinterest in ourselves. Even Lindsay Lohan is more interesting than we are. And McCain has revealed a secret political weapon of sorts that will sweep the NASCAR and Monday Night Football set--his St. Pauli Girl of a wife has a beer business. Hence the seven (or eight) homes, hence the tap that will never run dry. McCain is living an American male fantasy. Dude!

Never mind the war. Never mind the economy that's down the toilet. Forget the environment. (Nobody's talking about it, anyway. We're too busy placating the ignorant masses with our openness to offshore drilling, never mind that it's no solution at all for this speculation-induced fuel mess.) Just pop me another brewski, Baby.

It's the American way.

My Friends (as he says), we are in trouble. Not only do we have a nominee whose aura is Miller Lite at best, but we have the latent racism of a nation and a candidate with all of three years of federal experience. I'm glad he chose Joe Biden. I only wish it were the other way around.


I find it deliciously ironic that McCain's wife may own a huge chunk of a beer factory, but I've yet to hear anyone say McCain's the kinda guy they'd like to sit down and share a brew with.
I can imagine what that would be like.
McCain, wringing his painful hands, tapping his foot, looking at his watch and trying to make small talk as he sips a beer and contemplates how the alcohol might interact with his old man prescription drug regimen.
I bet he's one of those guys whose impatience with conversation is palpable.
I bet he's the type who listens for maybe two minutes, then gets red in the face and screams, "Will you get to the fucking point?!"
And I bet he NEVER has conversations with women, unless they are attractive enough for him to consider fuckable.
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