(Im)polite

It has only been in recent years that I have become interested in politics. 

Most of the time, it seemed the whole political arena was confusing and generally angry, and I had better things to do with my time, like play Zelda, or bubble shooter, or read stimulating literature, like "Twilight." 

Jeremy's constant righteous indignation about our government bled into me at some point, and I started paying attention. 

The result was that I was (and am) getting my panties in a bunch (and Jeremy was quick to remind me I don't wear panties. Somehow saying something like getting my G's in a squeeze doesn't pack the same punch. Maybe garments full of varmints?) when political issues would come up, especially when people would say really stupid stuff about what was going on, or make assertions about me and my political views. The most infuriating one was when we were discussing a topic, and the person opposite me summed up me, my views, and, to her, the whole argument, by saying "Well, that's what little Rush Limbah-ites say," and she topped the whole thing off with a smug smirk  I looked back at her flatly and replied, "I don't listen to Rush Limbah." The look on her face was priceless, because she then realized that she was talking to someone who did her own research, and wasn't relying on some third party to determine her opinions. I listen to Rush now, at times, and take great perverse satisfaction in doing so. 

In recent weeks, I have been paying close attention to the presidential race, and while exciting and intense at first, it has become stressful and intense, and I don't really like thinking about it a whole lot. 

Last night was the final debate. Jeremy turned it on right when the kids went to bed. I stared at the computer screen at Obomney (or, if you prefer, Robama). 

They sat politely at a table, with their hands politely folded, and nodded their heads politely, and since Jeremy had the volume down, I imagined that maybe they were being nice to each other. Yeah. I'm delusional.

At some point in America's history, vying for the position of President went from the desire to act in behalf of the voice of the people to pushing one's way into power and dominion. I'm still bitter that the popular vote doesn't count. That's just stupid. 

So, I didn't want to hear what they had to say. It was all rehash; he said/she said; regurgitated worms; fudgey lies and accusations; (im)polite contempt; whale blubber strewn about a messy whaling boat with Captain Ahab yelling and gyrating, and generally making a scene because this was the wrong whale, and it was surely someone else's fault, and old Ahab points the bloody harpoon accusingly at his men, neverminding the fact that he was the one who did it; monkey poop smeared on an imitation tree while the lonely primate scrapes it off and licks it solemnly. Take your pick. 

I decided that folding laundry was a better use of my time. 

After I was done, and had put away the last pair of varmint-free underwear, I walked back through the kitchen and glanced at the computer screen. President Obama was frozen in a sea of bubbles and was making a duck face that would make the Olsen twins jealous. I was kind of bummed that the screen saver had gone active when Obama was on the screen, but chances are the bubbles would have locked Romney's face into a bad imitation of Quasimodo. Duck face Obama was better.

I don't know who's going to win this election. I hope it's Romney, although my view of him has been slightly muddied in recent weeks. Nobody is perfect, however, and maybe change is good. My one consolation is that if Obama is reelected (or Romney turns out to be too good to be true) that the Second Coming will be fast-tracked by four years, and when the world burns I can sit in peace on a cloud and make s'mores in the blazing inferno.