Gutted

Four more years. Four more motherfucking years.

Shit.

Now the insanity will begin in earnest. Ragnarok is coming. The last four years was just the warm-up act.

This is a dark, dark day, with the Smiling Satanic Simian flinging faeces at us from his Big White House.

I am indescribably depressed at this news.

War of the World

Ohio, oh-me-oh, oh-my-oh. Damn, this is a tight race. As tight as the garrotte pressing against the throat of our planet, a sliver of red spotting at the seam of tension from the coil of razor-sharp red tape. So tight that we all hold our breath waiting for the outcome and I, for one, am going blue in the face.

When I get home this evening, I’m going to dig out my unread copy of Jake Tapper’s Down and Dirty: The Plot to Steal the Presidency, (the exhaustive look at the dirty tricks behind the Bush-Gore 2000 Rumble) and my well-read copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72.

Very, very exciting. The unfurling of history. But I don’t think there will be a definitive answer any time soon.