Behind the Eight Ball dept.

Goddamnit, I used to be smart. My mind was a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives. Now, I punch myself in the head and the answer comes up in my mind's eye: ASK AGAIN LATER.

Predictions ...

Al Gore will not be our next President. George W. Bush will be our next President. Bush is an idiot, but he's telegenic. Al Gore is Mr. Timbertoes. You know. Wooden. A man made out of wood. OK.

Gore will get the nomination at the Democratic National Convention next summer. Then he'll fuck it up -- make some guilt-tripping speech, or something. Bush will flash his frat boy smile. America will love him. Bush will win. Bush will be our next President. He couldn't manage a baseball team. But he'll be our next fucking President.

Bush, I shoulda mentioned, will get the Republican nomination. McCain will not. Yep. Some powerful Republican mofos have made their decision. The National Review, the Weekly Spectator et all are ALREADY fucking crime scenes of character assassination against McCain. Yeah. He's an unstable, post-traumatic, Bruce Dern-type Vietnam vet nut case who could snap at any minute! The fix is in. It's fucking obvious. And fucking sickening.

The impending election (and Bush's impending victory) may seem like the inevitable swings of the pendulum. With the clarity that Guinness provides, I can say it's more like a knife to the gut.

You can say that, can you? Have you lost your bloody mind? The Republicans win in 2000. That's a stab to your abdomen?

Fuck the Republicans. Fuck the Democrats.

Ah, I see. Fuck 'em all. That clears everything up.

I'm an independent, OK? I have no party affiliation. I've never marched in my life. "A plague on all their houses" is my only position. It's a point of pride to me.

Your lack of commitment and aversion to personal risk is duly noted.

Yeah, whatever. All I'm saying -- I'd always hoped that the idiots on the Left would cancel out the efforts of the idiots on the Right.

Perpetually?

I guess.

What changed the equation?

Clinton's penis.

Excuse me?

The Presidential willy. The Oval Office shlong.

Surely you can't...

Don't call me Shirley.

That was an old joke in --

1980. Yeah, I know. I'm out of fucking jokes.

Clinton's penis has ushered in the End of Days?

No.

No?

Not yet, OK?