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Politics of pain No matter what you think of Joe Six-Pack or Joe Plumber, no matter if you think jack shit of Barack Obama or John McCain, Cynthia McKinney or Bob Barr, I feel your pain. I assume you have the same pain as me, as my coworkers, as my family, my classmates, and the vast majority of the rest of the population of our nation, which is under assault. Pain from seeing a constant stream of too many political ads that talk about who voted with the leader of their party (the audacity!) or who bought an expensive haircut (it’s someone new every four years, and at the rate the cosmetic industry is moving, my guess would be James Carville in 2012). Pain from hearing radio hosts, talking heads, and idiotic newspaper columnists (we’re the worst) screeching about what was happening when a candidate was 8 years old or which candidate hates America, because honestly, truthfully, I hate PETA, and it’s always been my dream to replace Ingrid Newkirk as its head. I hate it so much I want to run it into the ground in a diabolical scheme that paints me not as an enjoyer of steak, bacon, and a good pastrami sandwich but a lover of all things living and a protector of the little forest creatures that inspire Disney films. Seems logical, at least to Sean Hannity. I digress. The pain is getting to me, clouding my mind. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed this election cycle, but we’ve come a long way from two years ago. I was expecting a more enjoyable culmination, but sometimes life throws a curve ball at you. I feel like the kid who got five bucks from his old man and was told to go to the circus, but he stopped at the wrong tent and spent way too long there, and now I’m a 10-year-old boy wandering glassy-eyed out of a shady big top, stunned by the lurid acts of a donkey, an elephant, and a very flexible bearded lady. It’s not that it hasn’t been a truly historic and amazing spectacle/shit storm/train wreck of a process, but too much of a good thing and all that. A few weeks ago, the pizza joint next to my favorite watering hole enticed me, and after several Rolling Rocks, I decided that cheese pizza drenched in Tabasco was manna from the gods, or at least that it was spectacularly tasty after a night of drinking. The thing is — even if my liver is pickled and my bar tab is in triple digits — at some point I get tired of cheese pizza with Tabasco. Anyone would. And this is where I am with the 2008 race. I’m not sure where I lost it. Somewhere in between ignorant half-breed hick Floridians posting homemade yard signs calling Obama a “half-breed muslin” (sic) and Keith Olbermann shrieking his liberal clarion and demeaning the Office of the President (more so than its current title holder has the past eight years, if that’s possible) the ability to digest the hard fiber of this race was forgotten. So much so that watching the news and scouring the Internet became less a bowl of Muselix and more a bathtub of our autumn’s dry leaves, pine cones, and good old fashioned dirt. All part of this complete breakfast, if you have the stomach for it. It was likely the dirt. Not the stuff in the figurative bathtub, but the slime and filth of American politics. Designers of recreational vehicles and indeed NASA are no doubt analyzing the septic capacity of the Straight Talk Express, because it sprang a leak long ago, but bile and refuse still pours from it by the minute. Just how much does that thing hold, and better yet, just how much can we take? I suppose the answer is upon us. McCain’s numbers are dire, despite a modest uptick in a handful of states where the cries of “socialism” and “terrorist” stick. The crows and buzzards in purple states who have a taste for what’s being served are feasting buffet-style, while the rest of America is trying to purge itself, not to make more room but for our health. And while the Wisconsin Advertising Project recently reported (accurately) that “nearly 100 percent” of McCain ads were negative and the McCain camp is happy to retort that Obama has spent a record amount on negative campaigning (because, of course, he’s spent a record amount on ads period) it doesn’t matter. I’m tired. |