Two-Minute Warning

My friends, whenever I hear some red-white-and-blue-blooded Heartlander say "Obama scares me," my own blood curdles. My rainbow-commie-lesbo- liberal-unpatriotic blood. I know what they're saying, my friends. You know what they're saying. Joe the Dickhead knows what they're saying. No one wants to say it aloud, my friends. But, my friends, we all know what they're saying.

Thank the gods Mr. Obama is running for President.

Aside from transformational presence and stunning intellect, Mr. Obama's candidacy has given us another gift. Now we have a chance to clean house once and for all. Now all the racists and bigots (and misogynists and anti-intellectuals) will be forced out of their moth-balled closets at long last, into the bright light of day, and we will know who they are -- who we are -- so we can finally put this sad chapter behind us and focus on trying to save this sad country, not to mention this sad world, before it's too late.

It's already the eleventh hour, my friends. My friends, it's actually 11:58.

Welcome to the Season of Fear. How telling that our election cycle occurs just after Halloween, when all the leftover ghosts and goblins and ghouls (Oh my!) can join the party, elbow to elbow with the politicos, their corporeal counterparts.

Last Saturday evening I took the dog for a walk, through the fallen red-orange-and-yellow leaves of my lily-white neighborhood, and as a few more McPain lawn signs mysteriously toppled over at my passing, I made my own mental list. That is to say the list wasn't mental, it was made mentally. Whatever, it goes something like this:

Things that scare me:

- liver disease
- Michele Bachmann
- humanity
- death

Main headings, to be sure, each can be expanded exponentially.

Back to my point. Did you catch MB on Hardball? Move over, Sarah! Your fourth-cousin-twice-removed-and-then-returned-again from Minnesota is strutting her hour upon the stage. In six-inch heels, no less. She's matching you inch-for-inch, baby! And to think a couple of shirttails like youse two were virtual unknowns a few short weeks ago. Your rising to such a level so rapidly is a particularly American story. It matters. I suggest a nude "everything-but-the-stilettos" Jello wrestling competition for the two of youse for election night, only patriots allowed, proceeds going to the National Taxidermist Association.

Speaking of which, is it just me, or does John McCain appear to have been embalmed? Maybe it's the latest in cosmetic enhancement procedures. A case of it ain't over 'til it's over, even if it's over.

The fact is, when we meet again, my friends, if we ever do, it will be over. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue will have a New Occupant, the Current Occupant will go back to drinking heavily (and he really should, my friends, if he hasn't already), and, if the gods have smiled upon us, all those fear-mongered Heartlanders referred to above will just have to eat it.

Eat it, baby, eat it!

Myself, I'm looking forward to a new menu. Like many of you, my friends, I've spent the last eight years wrestling bulimia, I look forward to something different on my plate. Something palatable for a change. And change, my friends, is what it's all about. It's in the air, my friends. Along with rapidly rising levels of unknown particulate matter. (Note to self: Add that to list.)