November 2, 2004

  • I was sixth in line when the polls opened this morning.  My daughter was fifth.  Some guy that looked and talked like Michael Moore was right behind me.  I hadn’t realized that genetic cloning had advanced so far as to impact elections!


     


    I had hoped my polling place would be computerized.  I had a xanga script on a memory stick that I wanted to upload to the pollbox so that I could leave my candidate a comment and eprops.  But, no-o-o, I was handed that little handled tool that doubles as a weapon to punch eyes out.  I punched the hole 3 times for my candidate—just to make sure there would be no hanging ugandas lingering about.  But while doing so, I got the weird notion that my ballot was actually a voodoo doll and the punch was a needle that I was sticking into my candidate.  I nearly switched over to needling the other candidate—to give him a good jab and show him how it feels.  But I refrained: too many liberias spoils the ballot.


     


    Vote.  But never forget: politics is war by other means.  If you hate war, you should hate its bastard twin, politics, too.  Engage in either only out of true necessity.  Never indulge in either for any reason whatsoever.  Just as a true warrior is never a warmonger, a true citizen is never a politician.  Vote intrepidly, envision a brighter future, but loathe always all that remains odious.

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