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Election Eve, 2004
Since Kerry hasn't paid me back for fronting him funds for kiteboarding
gear this summer on Tick Island, which left me no choice but to go with my
hat in hand to the Bush campaign to beg them to reimburse me on the
grounds that the press pictures of the elderly Franken-candidate in lycra
were more damaging than any twenty Swift boat veterans, and I was again
denied, I will consider abstaining from exercising my inalienable and
ancient right to decide between the two major parties this election cycle.
I will do the asinine thing, as is my wont, and write in Curt Schilling.
Not a bad choice, when I think of it, with David Ortiz for the undercard.
There doesn't seem to be anything else to do. I must learn to think
outside the chad. But I can hear The Gaudy Youth of Today shouting to me
over the barricades to consider the third party candidate. Their
tofu-hardened throats bellow, their greasy locks shake in youthful
agitation, their belly-button rings clink in a kind of sick despair, and
yet I fear I must deny my ardent young friends for one simple reason:
Ralph Nader seems to subsist solely upon boogers.
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