Blessed be the moderates, for we shall inherit the dearth

As a voter, I'm an endangered species -- a moderate. Somewhere between a Howard Baker Republican and a Daniel Patrick Moynihan Democrat, which, number one, badly dates me and, number two, puts me in a very narrow political demographic of little use to either party anymore. Today's politics are all about whipping the bases into a frenzy, and I'm way off base.

We Bakerian Moynihanites believe government is essential to national security and certain domestic duties, but to expect it to do anything especially efficiently or cost-effectively is foolish. That applies equally to waging war and running health care. We acknowledge the need for both guns and butter but think we ought to pay for them, and if we can't afford it all -- and we can't -- we should buy less of one, or probably both, rather than spend ourselves into oblivion.

We moderates are leery and weary of the shouting from both extremes. Doesn't anybody here know how to use an inside voice?

Tea Partiers rant about "taking our government back." They love to cite the Constitution, though one suspects many haven't read the thing and would do so only if it came in coloring book or Primary Reader form ("See Dick go on and on and on about his fantasy football league; that's freedom of speech. See Jane point an AK-47 in his direction; the 2nd Amendment says she can do this until you pry it from her cold, dead hands. Spot cannot seem to produce a birth certificate proving he's a real American.")

On the torches-and-pitchforks fringe of the Tea Party -- and also among some actual Republican candidates who identify with the TP -- some mutter darkly of armed revolution, but let's not get too worried; most of these folks look barely capable of organizing a beer run without driving the van into a tree or canal, or over themselves.

Meantime, Obama seems to be disappointing or angering just about everyone, because that's what presidents do once they go from the thrill of the campaign to the grubby reality of governing. Many of us moderates, while excited at the prospect of an African American president, were frankly skeptical from the start about all this airy "hope and change" talk, but it's those who bought into it who are especially hurting. Yes, it's hard to believe that a guy who won messianic acclaim and worship from media and supporters alike for such campaign promises as "yes, we can" and "we are the change we've been waiting for" would have ended up falling short of expectations, isn't it?

(On the lunatic wings of both extremes, there is at least some common ground -- a belief that the height of clever, cutting political commentary is to adorn the picket-sign images of your foes with Hitler mustaches. It's time to banish this tired practice; it does a disservice to the legacy of Hitler, who worked way too hard to redefine evil to be compared to every other American politician. Here's an idea: Instead of Hitler mustaches, how about drawing Justin Bieber hairdos on our political nemeses? A much more topical cultural reference and, in its way, more dismissive and insulting.)

So, another Election Day looms. Clearly, Sarah Palin has emerged as the counterweight to Obama. She was smart enough to see the Tea Party movement forming and to say, as the old saying goes, "There go my people. I must find out where they are going so I can lead them." Now, she's the veritable Wicked Witch to these flying monkeys. "Take your army to the Haunted Capital and bring me that boy and his dog. Now fly – fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!"

I can't help it: Whenever I hear Palin's voice, I react like a dog having a dog whistle blown next to his head -- I cover my ears, whimper and tremble; a couple of times, I even peed on the floor. But I also have a visceral reaction every time I hear and see Harry Reid, who may be the only politician in America awful enough to lose to the deranged Sharon Angle. Reid sometimes reminds me of a mortician and other times a mortician's customer, no offense to either morticians or corpses.

Oh, and speaking of corpses, Newt Gingrich somehow climbed out of his political grave, and all signs point to that noxious toad running for president.

So, while we can be glad the 2010 election is nearly over, it's nearly time to start dreading 2012. Palin-Gingrich vs. Obama-Biden.

Hitler mustaches all around. And Bieber haircuts, too, please.

The nutritionally and environmentally conscious who distribute fresh fruit, coins and dental floss to trick-or-treaters should go ahead and also hand out raw eggs, bars of soap, toilet paper and Molotov cocktails (Detroit only) so the kids don't have to make a separate, gas-wasting trip back to your house later.

The greatest bolt of sheer, unadulterated joy is found in that split second when you awake thinking it's a weekday and suddenly realize it's a Saturday. If that burst of giddy adrenaline could be distilled into a drug, I'd happily become an addict.

Of course living well is the best revenge, but if that's not a realistic option for you, a tire iron to the headlights can be quite effective, too.

‎Unlike some people, I never feel hungry an hour after eating Chinese food, but that might have something to do with my post-fortune cookie routine of pounding down a couple of burritos.

Just my luck -- I got a bod for business and a head for sin.

Career counseling

I've reached an awkward stage in my life and career: Too young to count the days 'til retirement (though I did: about 5,774) but too old to properly reinvent myself. I'm watching the work I enjoy and at which I am reasonably competent – organizing words and punctuation marks into some semblance of coherence -- become less and less marketable (oh, how I loathe that word), and hoping it remains viable long enough to get me to retirement.

It's not that I require a particularly affluent retirement. All I ask is a tidy little house, with a porch in front from which to yell at the neighborhood children and a small subsistence garden out back, including a row of medicinal marijuana to treat my Alzheimer's. I'm willing to don the blue vest of the Walmart greeter or the hairnet and plastic gloves of the hamburger slinger, if need be. I'm salting away cost-cutting tips, like a recipe for a Ramen noodle-cat food casserole. I hope not to be reduced to licking pizza boxes found in dumpsters and living in a van down by the river, though I'm hanging on to my old van just in case.

Meantime, I have two sons who will be entering the workforce -- please, Lord, let it be so -- in the next couple of years and they are looking to their old man for some wise career counsel. OK, that's a lie; they've asked me squat. But I have learned a few things in 28 years of hard work, grit and determination – actually 26; I coasted through 1986 and ’91 – and I’m going to share a few tips for my sons and all young men and women about to begin their careers, even those who seek to hasten my demise by working more cheaply, more cheerfully, more quickly and with fewer bathroom breaks than I:

• Pay about twice as much, maybe triple, for work shoes than you feel comfortable paying. You won’t regret it. Success begins with comfortable feet.

• Never attribute to conspiracy and venality that which can be explained by sheer human folly and stupidity.

• Network, network, network or, at a minimum, identify the movers and shakers in your profession and affix your lips securely to their behinds.

• Understand that starting at the bottom and working your way up is all well and good, but sometimes you only get to the middle and spend the rest of your career working your way sideways, and that's not all bad. There’s usually more fun to be had there than at the top, albeit less money.

• Success is partly about being in the right place at the right time but, even moreso, about NOT being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

• Men, strive for a job that doesn’t require the wearing of a suit, but in which you can get away with wearing one if you want to without having people coming up to you all day and asking, “who died?” It’s even better if men the next level up in your organization also don't have to wear a suit. That way, you won't need to invest in a new wardrobe if you somehow ascend another step up the organizational chain, either via the Peter Principle or because some schmuck in middle management, on one of the rare days he does wear a suit, gets a little too close to the paper shredder and gets sucked through it when his tie gets caught.
• I have no corresponding career fashion advice for women. I could venture some guesses, but I suspect that would end badly for me. Sorry.
  
• You've heard it's not what you know but who you know that determines success. Maybe. But if you really want to get ahead, it's about who you know, what you have photos or video of them doing and with whom they are doing it.

• And, finally, steal one Post-it note, one paper clip and one pen each week so you'll have a head start on going into business for yourself if the bottom falls out of your job.

Oh, and one more: Be nice to the old guy greeting you at Walmart. It might be me … and, one day, you.

I need one of my lawyer friends to weigh in on this question: If you plagiarize from Sarah Palin's oeuvre, you can't very well be accused of theft of intellectual property, right? Or, at worst, it's petty theft, I assume. I need to know because I'm working on a piece in which I really need to use the phrases "you betcha" and "hopey-changey."

Making mountains out of molehills is for amateurs. Hang around me awhile, and I'll show you how to make canyons out of pinholes.

This is a no-bitching zone this Hallothanksmas

I'm not bitching about the holidays this year. Period.

You know the usual complaints: Stores' Christmas displays are up too early. From Halloween to New Year's is one long, gluttonous gorgefest. There's too much stress. How come they call those tiny Hersey bars "fun-sized?" Everything's too commercialized. I just can't get into the holiday spirit. My neighbor's motion-detecting animatronic witch shrieks every time a bunny hops across the lawn, to be followed by his animatronic Santa ho-ho-ho-ing on the same cue. (Come to think of it, the neighbors may be animatronic, too; all I ever see them do is mow the lawn, pick the paper up from their porch and walk to and from their car.)

Not only has the Christ been taken out of Christmas, but the Hallowed has been taken from Halloween and the Thanks from Thanksgiving.

Well, big deal. I'm taking myself by the scruff of my neck and slapping myself across the face and saying, "Self -- buck up, quit whining." Instead of acting like it's a burden, I'm embracing the last quarter of the year as one big single holiday -- Hallothanksmas. A three-month holiday that captures so much that's great about life: Chocolate, family, wonderful food, appreciating the many blessings of life, pie, Christmas songs silly and profound that everyone sings even if they can't hit a single note, happy (albeit sugar-stoked) children, giving and receiving, the birth of a baby who saved the world. And chocolate. Did I mention chocolate?

Of course it's Too Much. We Americans are not exactly known for a subtle, light touch in anything we do, are we?

Take the house I pass a half-dozen times a week -- every neighborhood has at least one of these. These people get their decorating freak on for all of the major holidays, covering every square inch of their property with kitschy crap. It looks like an accident scene, as if a Nobbies supply plane, in an incredible coincidence, fell out of the sky atop a Nobbies truck right in their front yard. (Nobbies, for you non-eastern-Nebraskans, is an Omaha holiday decor emporium; to wander its aisles is to fall into a Martha Stewart nightmare, the one she has when she secretly pounds down a Domino's pizza and a box of Ho-Hos after midnight. )

I used to look down my nose at people like this. How gauche. But a couple of years ago, I noticed something: Every time I passed this house, I smiled. Not a sarcastic, sneering smile. No, one of those smiles that came from happiness. Imagine that. Given that just about everything else I see while driving makes my jaw tighten, I now look forward to passing this monument to tacky joy.

(Lest I sound too much like a Dr. Seuss redemption project whose heart grew three times and whose good taste shrunk by half that day, let me be clear: I don't want to live next door to these people; I just like driving by their house.)

I suspect that people who decorate like this are having more fun than I and, even more important, spreading more joy than I. They're the only ones in their office who dress in costume on Halloween, and they don't care what people think. They prepare three full Thanksgiving meals because they're hosting three different gatherings, or they're experimenting with a new way to cook a turkey but aren't about to leave the old ways behind, or they're providing a meal to strangers. They organize Christmas caroling outings. They bake an obscene amount of cookies. They laugh every time they hear "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." They are spreaders of holiday spirit, not suckers of it.

I think I'd like to be more like these people, but it may not be in me. For instance, my cats are the only ones this week who will see how fabulous I look in my Lady Gaga costume.

But I can do my part this holiday season. I can be more prayerful, thankful and accepting and less cynical, judgmental and obsessed with that which doesn't matter. I can be more joyful because joy is so much more fun than woe. I can quit sneaking over to the neighbors' and inappropriately reposing their Halloween displays. I can quit searching for the holiday spirit as if it's a commodity and simply be open to it popping up in my life when and where I least expect it. And, by God, I can eat one helluva lot of chocolate.

Happy Hallothanksmas, all!

I'm willing to check my ego at the door, but the id stays with me at all times.

I'm running with scissors, playing with matches, scratching that itch, picking that scab, not eating my vegetables, talking with my mouth full, leaving my hat on in the house, wearing dirty underwear, leaving the door open like I was born in a barn, crossing my eyes and, yes, though the instructions make clear it's not intended as such, using a large plastic baggie as a toy. Happy Saturday, all -- live it up!

I think it's especially critical in such contentious, stressful times to pay careful heed to that old adage against discussing those two particularly sensitive topics. Nevertheless, I feel I need to point out -- nothing personal, you understand, and I trust you'll take this constructively -- that the only thing more asinine, uninformed and downright vile than your political views are your religious beliefs.

I would love to be the proverbial fly on the wall when Fred Phelps dies and meets God, somewhere significantly south of Heaven, and finds God waving a picket sign that says, "I have no problem with 'fags,' but I really hate hate. And protesting at funerals really pisses me off, too. Oh, don't turn away; I'm just getting warmed up -- and so are you."

It's been months since I've seen a vigorous middle-finger salute directed my way while driving. Victim of the times, I guess. It's pretty hard to flip a proper bird when texting with one hand and holding drink, cig or food in the other -- and impossible to flip the rare double bird, knees steadying the steering wheel. It made me kind of sad. The old ways are dying; these kids today -- no respect for tradition.

Pssst, come up and check out my bed sometime

We just bought a new mattress -- one of those fancy Tempurepedic models. I'm a little uncomfortable sharing that, but I gather this is the sort of thing we middle-aged folk are supposed to brag about.

I know this because the moment my wife mentioned to friends and co-workers we were in the market for a new one, she was inundated with advice and testimonials. And since we made the purchase, people "ooh" and "aah" when we report what we bought.

So, a high-end mattress apparently is the status symbol of middle age. It's how we keep up with the Joneses or, even better, get ahead of them. I mean, what else is there for us? Home theater systems? Maybe -- though the satisfaction of mine is somewhat diminished by the fact that I can't operate it without my children's help. I kid you not: The last time my wife and I tried to watch a DVD, I had to call one daughter, then the other, to have them talk me through it, like they were air traffic controllers and I was a passenger trying to land a plane for the first time. Once we got the movie going, I banned popcorn and beverage consumption for fear that if I had to pause it for a bathroom break, I'd never get it going again.

Cars? Not likely. Some of us still are in the Minivan Stage of Life and nobody who's in the Minivan Stage wants to talk about it. I mean, once you get past talking up the seat-folding options and cupholder technology, what is there to say? And among those who have moved past the Minivan Stage, very few seem to be buying that status-symbol sports car about which they once fantasized. I do see a couple of guys about my age driving red convertibles in south Lincoln, and I just feel embarrassed for them. Truth be told, they look a little embarrassed, too; there's nothing worse than realizing you've become a cliche. (And yes, I know that driving a minivan is a cliche, too, but it's a practical cliche.)

Our yards? Not really. Most of us who only a few short years ago took such pride in showing off a perfectly groomed lawn or exquisitely pruned rose bush now are thinking of the merits of townhouse living where someone else mows the tiny patch of grass out front.

So, a mattress it is. Did I mention it's a Tempurepedic? Because if I didn't, you need to know that. We upgraded from queen- to king-sized, too. Cost more than our first house. OK, that's an exaggeration. The salesman told me, "This mattress is an investment" -- which I'm sure is what he's trained to say when he sees a customer looking at the price tag with that "WTH, it's just a mattress" look on his face.

As status symbols go, a mattress obviously isn't as satisfying as a car or lawn, which are on display for all to see and envy. Unless you live in a much more swingin' neighborhood than we do, no one's ever going to see your new proudest possession. So, you watch for moments when you can casually mention it in everyday conversation -- as when someone yawns or grimaces as they arch their back, and you're quick to say, "wow, that's what I used to look like before I bought my Tempurepedic mattress."

Meantime, I'm rationalizing the cost by reminding myself that one does spend up to one-third of the day in bed, so maybe this IS an investment. To really get my money's worth, though, I'm thinking of taking all my meals there. Maybe see if I can telecommute and set up my home office on the mattress, too. If I could get up to about 20 hours a day on this thing, I'd feel even better about it.

I'm gonna go lie down now. I can't stand the thought of it sitting there unused.

I do more before 9 a.m. than most people do all day. I compensate, though, by doing jack squat after about 10:15.

Reflecting on the end of another Monday: Some days you achieve truly great things, lift those around you to new heights, inspire everyone you encounter, are a veritable bright light in the darkness to all lucky enough to bask in your presence. And then there are days you're relieved and proud to get through without punching someone in the mouth. Whatever kind of day this was for you, well done, my friend. Well done.

Giving up, defined.

I have no patience for men who whine, "my wife doesn't understand me." Please. You know what's far more troublesome? Being married to a woman who understands you perfectly well.

Something tells me there's
an emergency school board
meeting in Dr. Feingold's future.

Brett Favre's Tipped Ball, Incomplete Pass

Call me old-fashioned, but I miss the days when seduction was a delicate art -- eye contact made briefly, then broken, interest subtly but unmistakably conveyed; tiny but meaningful gestures that say "hey, I think I might like you"; an awkward but maybe-possibly-could-be-promising first date followed by that invigorating will he/she call next-day tension; wondering where this is headed; stomach aching in that sweet, nervous way; the delivery of flowers, maybe some chocolates.

But, no, the world's in too big a hurry these days; no time for romance. Instead, the modern way apparently is to just text that special someone a photo of one's, um, naughty bits with the message ... geez, I can't imagine what you would say. Maybe: "Lookee here, I have genitalia. I'll bet you do, too. Whaddya say we get them together?"

I'm sorry to be so crude, but damn, sometimes it's just embarrassing to be a member of the human species, isn't it? Of course, "sexting" has been the ubiquitous "What's Wrong With Our Kids Now" worry for the last year or so. But adults are getting into the act, too. Brett Favre, who's really, really wishing he'd stayed retired right about now, allegedly texted to a young woman photos of his little Viking -- actually, at the time, he was a Jet, so I guess it was his Joe Willie; prior to that, his little cheesehead. This seems to be an epidemic among professional athletes. Players from the NBA, NFL and MLB all have been publicly humiliated after digitizing their johnsons.

Obviously, professional athletes, most still in arrested adolescence, are hardly representative of society as a whole. Still, others are up to this, too. One poll found that 20 percent of teens and 33 percent of young adults claimed to have sent nude or semi-nude photographs of themselves electronically.

There's no need to get into the sociology of all this, mostly because there's really no mystery to it; for centuries, humankind has been adapting the latest communications technologies for filthy purposes -- Neanderthals adorning their walls with crude but explicit caveman smut (such boorishness is why they came to be called Neanderthals, natch), Gutenberg printing off sets of dirty jokes in between Bible runs, telephones employed for dirty talk and the Internet ... well, you know.

I could go on; in fact, I can think of several dozen more sophomoric football-related sexual euphemisms. And that's just off the top of my head. So to speak. But I'm better than that.

Besides, I have a serious concern here. As an old newspaper guy, I'm still a hopeless believer in the Old Media, but when it comes to the aforementioned art of seduction, the Old Media clearly is archaic. Newspapers waited too long to react to the changes that now engulf them. I hope Hallmark isn't making the same mistake. I hope they have a new line of greeting cards in production -- ones that incorporate digital photos in creative ways. Perhaps a series of pop-up cards. For example, "I was thinking of you ..." on the front. Open the card and behold the pop-up image, with the words "... and then something came up."

Word is that Favre might lose his Wrangler endorsement deal over his little scandal, so maybe he'd be open to signing on with Hallmark to promote this new line. Scene: Our hero sticks card in envelope, licks it shut as he winks toward the camera with his customary Favrian bonhomie, and says "Hallmark's Pop-Ups. When you care enough to send your very best."

I can't decide which is more decadent: beer in the morning or doughnuts in the afternoon. Must do more research.

I am aware that I look fabulous. But you do me no favors by telling me so. See, every time someone says, "you've lost weight," I give myself permission that night to skip going to the gym and to have a dish of ice cream, maybe even to stop for a Sausage McGriddle on the way to work the next day. So, please, no more praise and adoration. Henceforth, I will simply interpret your silence as stupefied awe of me. Thank you

Mine eyes have seen the glory

Wow, that was some terrific, glued-to-the-TV drama, wasn't it? Most thrilling spectacle in a long time.

But in the offices of producers, directors, writers and cable-television network executives everywhere, there's great wailing and gnashing of teeth today over the fact that no one thought of this whole trapped-in-a-mine reality-show concept before real reality served it up.

Of course, they're also sniffing disdainfully at the sheer amateurishness of this production. I mean, can you believe they pulled them all out in less than 24 hours without a hitch? Not even once did that little capsule slip and fall 30 feet, sending screams through the studio audience and sending TV viewers' hearts into their throats -- right before a commercial break, of course. Also, where were the huge, poisonous mine spiders and snakes stalking the trapped miners, or the one sinister miner plotting to kill the rest, one by one?

And what happened to the original plan to pull them out at Christmastime? Damn, that would have been sweet -- family and friends serenading the miners with "Silent Night." Though not as sweet as timing the last miner's ascension for sweeps week. Finally: 33 Chilean miners? Really? Where's the dramatic tension in that? You gotta have some demographic diversity to really move the ratings needle. Hotter and younger; obviously some women, inexplicably stuck down there with nothing but bikinis and lingerie to wear -- less of a miner look, more of an Abercrombie and Fitch look. Dial up that sexual tension half a mile below ground. That's how to get sponsors to buy a piece of this action.

Even the most jaded Hollywoodite, though, has to admit the Yonni Barrios angle was sheer brilliance -- the miner's wife wondering, "say, who's this other woman pining for my husband?" Turns out it's his mistress. ("Oh no, he di'int" cries the studio audience as wife and mistress glare at each other.) Boffo!

Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, we should assume that dozens of trapped-in-mine ideas were in planning stages by first thing this morning. Maybe the next "Die Hard" movie will be set in a mine. Perhaps a romantic comedy (Hanks and Ryan in "You've Got Shale").

The TV possibilities are limited only by the cable-networks' good sense, taste and restraint -- which is to say unlimited. "Survivor" and MTV's "Real World" are obvious. Send Martha Stewart down to offer tips on how to decorate should you ever be stuck underground for a couple of months ("Rocks can be stacked for an exquisite autumn centerpiece.") A very special "Iron Chef" (special theme ingredient: copper)

Finally -- and I hate to go there, except that I want credit when it happens -- a mine-based version of "The Biggest Loser," in which the winner would be the first person to lose enough weight to slip out through that 28-inch hole. And the ones left behind? They'll be the subjects when we send Clint and Stacy down for a special episode of "What Not to Wear" ("That hard hat is doing nothing for your love life, honey.")

I'm putting off 'til tomorrow what I should do today, it's true, but I did last week what could have waited 'til February, so get off my back.

I acknowledge my hand-eye coordination is not what it used to be, but I'm compensating with an ever-more-acute foot-mouth coordination.

‎Like most modern, sensitive managers, I have an open-door policy in my office. I do appreciate some advance notice, however, so I can get out of there before you show up.

Sadly, there are no decent Columbus Day jokes, so I made one up myself: Did you hear the one about the dumb white males who created a helluva mess all over town when they reacted, enthusiastically but confusedly, to the college-graduation speaker's exhortation to "go out and conquer new worlds." What, too soon?

From Tea Partiers -- a real brew-haha

"If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up." -- Hunter S. Thompson

• Delaware Senate candidate Christine O’Donnell dabbled in witchcraft, said she wouldn’t have lied to the Nazis to spare Anne Frank and proudly proclaims she is master of her domain.
• Nevada Senate hopeful Sharron Angle floated the possibility of armed overthrow of the government and, as a state legislator, opposed fluoridation of the water in her home county.
• New York gubernatorial candidate Carl Paladino admitted forwarding racist and sexually explicit e-mails, threatened to “take out” a reporter and described the new federal health-reform law as potentially more deadly than the 9/11 attacks.
• Ohio House candidate Richard Iott once posed for a picture dressed in a Nazi uniform.
• Florida congressional candidate Allen West, who, as an army officer, admitted assault and other wrongdoing in his questioning of an Iraqi prisoner, has called on supporters to "grab their muskets" and "fix your bayonets."

And then there are Rand Paul in Kentucky, Joe Kelly in Alaska, and so on.

Clearly, we’re being had. No way are these real politicians, or real campaigns. Rather, they are participants in an elaborately and brilliantly staged piece of avant-garde performance art. Or street theater, if you prefer. Like Karen Finley covering herself in chocolate, or the World Famous Bushman (look him up on Wikipedia. Best. Act. Ever.)

Perhaps Andy Kaufman and Hunter S. Thompson are actually still alive somewhere and cooked this up together; it does have a KaufmanThompsonesque feel to it. Or Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart are behind it; Lord knows, they certainly have profited from it.

Most likely, though, this is just a setup to a new reality show, to be aired right before Election Day. Too bad the title "Idiocracy" already is taken. Maybe, inspired by the aforementioned Thompson, they'll call it "Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail, 2010." Or just "America's Nuttiest Candidates." To be hosted by Bob Dole, Bill Clinton and Kim Kardashian (hands to yourself, Mr. President).

This scheme began two years ago, when John McCain -- yes, he was in on it -- selected as his running mate a fictional character known as Sarah Palin.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

The show will climax, appropriately, on Halloween night -- 36 hours before Election Day -- with a big, "Glee"-like production number featuring all the "candidates" dancing and singing songs comprising some of their craziest campaign lines. Christine O'Donnell will headline the big finish; I don't want to spoil the surprise, but rumor has it a satanic altar will be involved. (However, contrary to other reports, she still will be queen of the castle; censors insisted on that.)

So we've been punk'd, as the kids say. Well played, ladies and gentleman. Bravo. And to think some of us feared these people actually could end up running the country. Ha, ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Um, ha?

Let's go to the clip ...

Well, it WILL warm
you right up.

We've decided to quit trying to keep up with the Joneses. Instead, we're gonna focus on staying ahead of the Smiths, who are gaining rapidly on us.

Wrangler's new TV ad with Brett Favre

NFL investigating reports of lewd behavior by Brett Favre - NFL - SI.com

Wrangler's new TV ad:

The scene: A pickup football game featuring a bunch of manly, jeans-clad dudes. Future Hall of Fame quarterback Brett Favre throws a touchdown pass, then calls a timeout. We see him dart behind a tree and we watch from behind as he looks back at us, smiling that irresistible stubbly grin, pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and yanks at the front of his jeans. We hear the click of the cell-phone camera. As he turns and heads back to the huddle, he says, "When you're sexually harassing that special lady and need to send her a quick picture of your junk, nothing's better than Wrangler's Perv Jeans, with the quick release Velcro front flap for easy access." He flashes that grin again and winks as he holds the cell phone screen toward the camera; the image is carefully blurred, of course, but you get the idea. The word "SENT" shows up on the cell phone screen, then Favre jogs back to the huddle. Voiceover: "Wrangler's Perv Jeans. Real. Comfortable. Jeans. For the discriminating stalker, flasher and sexual harasser."

Dog Won't Listen

Just Because It's Friday ... "See how good he mind me." Warning: This voice cannot be unheard; it will be with you the rest of the day.

Yeah, yeah, I can turn the world on with my smile. Big deal. What I really could use is the power to bring it to its knees with my glare.

Getting to Know Your Fellow Drivers, Like it or Not

I’ve never been a bumper sticker person. There’s only so much I want my fellow drivers to know about me.

I have nothing against people who do like them, mind you, and I enjoy ones that express an original or clever thought. But most don’t.

I’ve never approached another car at a stoplight and said to myself, “gee, I wonder if her child is on the honor roll. Oh, yes, there it is. Well done, driver’s child!” Or: “Say, where does this person stand on health-care reform? Ah, a photo of Obama with Hitler moustache, stethoscope and Grim Reaper's scythe; that answers that."

Some state the obvious. You might have guessed, without official confirmation from his bumper, that this guy would rather be sailing, given how he’s drifting all over the frickin’ road like he’s tacking in a typhoon.

Meantime, the tone of most political bumper stickers these days is so corrosive, it’s a surprise bumpers aren’t rusting from underneath them. Sometimes, when I’m behind a particularly angry bumper, I wish I had a sticker on my front bumper, printed in reverse so it’s legible in a rear-view mirror, that says: “Please quit screaming at me.”

And then there are those times when bumper stickers offer more information than I care to know about the people with whom I'm sharing the road, or, for that matter, the planet.

Like the van I was stuck behind for a couple of miles the other day. The first two stickers I read were innocuous enough: “God bless America” and “Don’t tread on me.” Then it got more interesting: “9/11 was an inside job,” “The Federal Reserve is not federal!” “Infowars.com.” “Don’t blame me. I voted for Chuck Baldwin.”

I had to Google those last two when I got home. Infowars.com is the website of Alex Jones, radio host, 9/11 truther and “dedicated and aggressive Constitutionalist.” Baldwin has run for president and vice president and announced this year he was moving to Montana after God told him that it was the “tip of the spear in the freedom fight.”

Even before I Googled, I surmised where this guy was coming from, and I spent much of drivetime with a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, worried about rear-ending his van – no doubt packed with weapons, canned goods, and probably a couple of trussed-up college professors or IRS agents to be used as hostages if necessary. And if I did rear-end the van, I’d either have to exchange insurance information with the driver, which would lead, presumably, to a screed about how the Trilateral Commission controls the auto insurance industry, or we’d both be immolated in the explosion set off by his home-made bombs, whereupon I’d be briefly mentioned in news coverage as the innocent bystander who was luckless enough to cross paths with one of the FBI’s most-wanted domestic terrorists. (This is one of my great fears, by the way: Dying as an “innocent bystander.” However I go, I want to be at the top of the bill, please.)

When he turned out of my path, I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to find myself behind a driver that merely threatened to beat up my honor-roll student and shoot me if I tried to take his guns away. Oh, and he invited me to honk if I loved Jesus.