Cleveland: Keeping Christmas at Home
Ramona: The War on Happy Holidays
Some coming weekend morning, as the busses deploy from Atlantic Center at the unforgiving hour of 8:30, I will drop an extra 20 mg. of Adderall to steel myself against the unfamiliar glare of the morning sun, and set off to go door-to-door for that worthless punk, Obama.
Do not be deceived: I'm still voting for Jill Stein, and I haven't begun to forgive the suave deceiver who made me cry twice- once when elected, once when revealed as the stealth running dog of the plutocrats that he is. I am, after all, volubly on record as disgusted beyond all human endurance by the waste of a moment of real possibility for political transformation.
When all is said and done, though, when I look at the sides as they are chosen up, my hatred for Willard and all his works, his fellow travellers and enablers, means that I must go with my tribe against his.
So it was that I walked into the debate watch party and asked that cute Suzi Mulvihill where the Trotskyites for Obama table was.
(Cynics may suggest that the prospect of ten hours down and back in a bus full of the cute and earnest is weighing in my civic activist equation, to which suspicions I say merely, "Duh...")
Anyway, it's on like Donkey Kong. Gimme my clipboard, and get outta the way.