I will try not to watch tomorrow night as Drunk Uncle Joe stands across from the young whippersnapper in America's least relevant dick-measuring contest. One of them will be one clogged artery of Destiny or a .22 trip to the temple away from sitting in the Big Chair, but there's no need to get carried away. Even those of us non-swing staters without televisions or cars have heard all we need to know. And that includes from the number twos. I'd rather see them smile and bake chocolate chip cookies together, using the oven time to tug each other off under the counter top while a list of their policy influences and major donors disappear atop the screen like its the opening credits to Star Wars. Two men blowing hot air and Key Words into the klieg lights and Camera One until our minds die is not my idea of a Fitness Test for the highest office. I could learn all I need from a dossier and color photo of the candidate at twenty-five. That, and their porn preferences, and consider me to be an informed voter.
I already have one of those mental dossiers preconfigured. It is not from MSNBC or Fox, from the Times or the Post. Not the print nor the magical color box nor even the great big interwebs had to tug my ear and say, "Let me tell you a story." Because I attended Miami University, and I know Paul Ryan. Maybe not him, but I knew dozens like him from my years between the red bricks and under the stately trees. He was skinnier, hair about the same, maybe wore some Russel Athletic sweatshirts to morning class. He was a Delt, so he definitely got pretty drunk and probably played along for those parties where they put a bunch of sand in the basement. He was the guy who bought a table-full on Quarter Beer Night at Attractions and refused to give one to somebody outside his crew. He cut in line late night at Bagel & Deli and then smirked at you when you bitched. He was the guy with the car who said he was too busy to drive you to the airport, then spent the next few hours blasting his pecs at the Rec. At least once per semester, he offered some form of support, be it moral, financial, or in understanding, to a date rapist in the best interests of Brotherhood.
He will do quite well tomorrow night, I imagine. After all, he was the kid in Econ 101 who scoffed at the professor. He has always liked to challenge authority in the name of an authority more strict and irrational than anything that ever wore buttons. He will channel Hitler's economic policies with a blue-eyed twinkle that will have every grandma from Oshkosh to Walla Walla wishing to pinch his cheeks. It won't really sway the election, but people will see the Antichrist and think him a Nice Young Man. Those of us who care about politics will decipher its minutiae for weeks, while the fate of the free world will actually be decided by the reaction of one man in Toledo to the gas prices on November 6.
So I know that if it matters, it won't be worth watching. If this two-man regurgitation is talked about in one weeks' time it's owing to some shitbrick Uncle Joe laid while ad-libbing. Millions and millions of people will be willing to dismantle every civil, social, and economic privilege they have because the Good Guy has a big nose or abandoned The Script for one fatal sound byte. The stakes are high, the value is low, and it's right before the Colorado-Arizona State kickoff. They've been real shit of late, but they're coming off a bye week and the freshmen are starting to come around. Plus, they're getting their safety back, and we all know Thursday night leans to the home team. And they are playing at altitude, so, with any luck.....
And I'm already off track. Which, is a case in point. My heart can only take so much; time to step away from the politics, if only for a moment.
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