Things Are Getting Weird

It happens every presidential autumn.  Can you feel it, America?  That special buzz in the air, part intoxication, part apocalyptic?  Doesn't it make you want to unplug from all media and go to the south of France, where you can sit on the beach and drink martinis and, later, shower off the day, dress for dinner, and eat in the fancy hotel dining room while wearing a dress coat with many flamboyant gold buttons?  And afterwards, sipping cognac, or perhaps the tears of Sarah Palin's neglected infant, you may stroll on the boardwalk, feeling beautiful, looking beautiful, the stars coming out in the soft Frenchy sky while some old soldier squeezes the living Christ out of an accordion and dark eyed women beckon you to run back to the ocean, fling off all your clothes, and give a blood curdling scream before diving into the wine red Mediterranean, where you will wrestle sharks, rogue baguettes, and your own repressed sense of personal accountability.

Ah...  Election year!


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