Here in America, we have this little election thing going on. Monday night found us witnessing something called a presidential debate. As someone with a teensy-eensy bit of organized, scored debate experience, I use the word “debate” loosely, because the rules to which I was trained to adhere were clearly ignored, if not altogether missing.

 

Like a lot of voters, we watched the program in its entirety. We had a friend over, thinking there might be greater positivity in unity. I’m not sure I felt the benefits of that idea, but it did help to have another person in the room. I reined in my swearing – if only a smidge – and I didn’t get up to pace the floor, not even once. I was mighty stressed out, I won’t lie. This shit matters, y’all. It does. Honestly, I don’t expect my stress to abate until we get through the election. And then? But I digress…

 

Now I could go into how heartbroken I am by this entire scene, and how embarrassing this predicament is for my country, but I’m going to let those tears sink in my beer. Instead, I want to share a text exchange betwixt Mister and a buddy that happened immediately following the debate. That friend really captured the essence of The Human Cheeto’s non-substantive words:

 

Friend: How are you feeling now?…

Mister: Pretty damn good… I just allowed myself to have a celebratory cookie…

Friend: Was it a cookie from Chicago? Because I have some properties there, I love Chicago. But Chicago is ~ it’s like this: Hillary started the cookie birther argument. I forced the cookie to produce its birth certificate, of which I’m very proud, by the way, and now, like in North Carolina, where I own some businesses by the way, businesses which are probably almost completely legitimate tax free endeavors because I was merely using the laws of this country, and we have got to get cookies out of the hands of cyber!

 

Yep. That pretty much sums it up. It’s good to laugh about it. It is. But it’s still heartbreaking.

 

I don’t think I can possibly drink enough beer to drown my tears.

 

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