You've got to love it. The hope. The striving. The stupidity. The emdash that oughta be an ellipses. The Media's not gonna vote . . . but we are. This primary is the biggest of them all. It's pornographic.
The so-called left in America, whether they call themselves Democrats or Progressives or, you know, the Left, is rapidly approaching their fetus-worshipping rightist counterparts in their dedication to waging permanent warfare against a neverending roster of implacable bogeymen. There's no sense to it. Even if you accept the electoral process as the sole means of social change and, you know, progress, what practical end is served by bombarding a national mailing list with exhortations to participate in the Iowa Caucuses and the New Hampshire primary? I live in Pennsylfuckingvania. I am all for fraud at the ballot box as a matter of general principle. If you must vote, vote early and often. I have plenty of now-deceased relatives whose crackpot opinions I spent decades tolerating. I see no reason to deny them their rightful votes just because they must be cast posthumously. Yet here I am, sitting in Pittsburgh, being told that showing up at some cowtown VFW in Iowa can serve me as a moment of personal validation and psychic healing right up their with my hypno-regression-therapeutic realization that Pastor Touchnkiss was behaving . . . inappropriately.
Jilarack Edbamton, a nation turns its lonely eyes on you. It used to be that losers and shut-ins could turn to drink or heroin or science fiction, but now the romantically disinclined, the overweight, the undersocialized of America have made a weird fetish out of yanking levers and touching touchscreens. It's trop bizarre. I guess it's cheaper than head-shrinking, but honestly, you can build an orgone accumlator in your backyard with some two-by-fours and scrap particle board. That's still more expensive than voting, but there are fewer seniors, and it's less likely to rain.