Ach! Sssss! It hurtssssss usss, my precioussssss. We did that thing. That thing we never ever did and swore we’d never ever do: we voted for Lincoln Chafee. Only one thing could make me draw a mark for that pale, puffy piece of shit: the prospect of a Senator Whitehouse.
Honest to god, I think there’s something wrong with Chafee’s mind. He votes with the party 80% of the time, except when it really matters (like, you know, voting for the party’s presidential candidate). I think he’s philosophically an empty bucket; the voice in his head tells him he’ll get lots of yummy attention if he breaks wrong on the wrong issue at the wrong time, and that’s that. You wait: if he gets in and the Senate goes 50/50, he’ll jump the aisle. He said he would.
My polling place is in the city’s deepest, darkest housing project. A woman standing in front cornered me and asked me to vote yes on Question 2. That’s the one that would allow felons to vote. I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing she has a personal stake in the outcome. I muttered something about rain and nipped inside when she squinted suspiciously into the sky.
It was a long, long ballot this time. I had dutifully looked it up online over the weekend and edumacated myself on the constitutional amendments and bond issues and shit, but I totally forgot the local questions. There were two pages of city issues, and I had to go “wahoo!” and pull them out of my hairy ass.
Some of them were ne pas de brains. Like any question which began “Should the Department of _______ be abolished?”
Then there was stuff like “Should section 1087 be amended to include reference to section 1089?” And then I was like, “You tripping? Well…sure it…should…?” What the hell?
Afterwards, as always, I stopped at Dunky and bought myself a donut for being a Good Weasel. But my usual warm, happy civic glow was irrevocably harshed by the deed I had done. My blueberry cake donut tasted of RINO. I lost my “I voted!” sticker…which is a pity, because I was going to combine it with that last “I gave blood!” sticker to more adequately express my sentiments. Curse you, Senator Asswipe! I don’t care; I hope you lose.
Now, excuse me. I’m going to go saw off my voting hand, pour gasoline on it, light a match and then piss on the ashes.