The election is finally over and life in America can get back to normal. And by "normal" I mean "we no longer feel like we're standing behind a gigantic manure spreader that's constantly spraying us with bull pen residue."
There will no doubt be withdrawal symptoms for those -- you know who you are! -- who became deeply obsessed with this last election. Folks who have spent the past year constantly logging onto political websites, checking the polls, the poll of polls, and the poll of the poll of polls.
Don't ask how I know this. But I would appreciate it if someone could direct me to a support group along the lines of "political junkies anonymous."
We in the hinterlands take our voting seriously. We wait in line solemnly and quietly, as if we are about to receive Communion or go to confession. We watch with a twinge of envy as voters emerge from the booth, a self-satisfied smile on their faces.
As I stood in line, a guy named Harvey came out of the voting booth. Passing his next-door neighbor, Harvey grabbed him by the arm and said, "I just got done voting the right way. Now don't you go and vote the wrong way!"
And therein lies the rub. We who live in and around small towns wait in the voting line with folks we have known all our lives. And as we wait, we mentally winnow out those who really shouldn't be allowed to vote.
For instance, there's Floyd, a farmer from out west of town. We all recall how Floyd experimented with exotic animal farming some years back.
After very little thought and even less research, Floyd decided to become an armadillo rancher.
Floyd pulled his cattle trailer clear down to El Paso and purchased several dozen armadillos from a dodgy armadillo dealer. Back at his farm, Floyd put his herd of armadillos into a pen he'd made of a double layer of corn cribbing.
The next morning they were gone -- every last armadillo had absconded! If Floyd had only opened a dictionary he might have read the words "a small, rodent-like burrowing animal."
Reports began to trickle in regarding a weird mutant strain of bald raccoons. The animal welfare folks promptly commenced to making a fuss, decrying the vandals who were catching and shaving raccoons, then releasing the shivering and confused varmints back into the wild. Floyd could have cleared it all up in a minute, yet opted to keep mum.
Nope, Floyd probably shouldn't be allowed to vote. Neither should Lavonne.
Lavonne is on -- what? -- her fourth husband, I believe. This latest one is a real doozy. His only occupations seem to be polishing his Harley and growing nose hair. It looks like a jungle has taken root in his nostrils; whenever you see that guy you can't help but think "Where's my weed whacker?"
We all know why Lavonne has made increasingly bad choices in men: it's due to her overuse of hair care products. Really, now, who does she think she's fooling? Doesn't she recall that when we went to high school with her some thirty years ago, she was very clearly a brunette?