7 Quick Takes: “Glitches Galore” Edition

Oh yes!   A Seven Quick Takes that is truly miscellaneous, like it’s supposed to be.  If there’s a theme at all, it’s that I found appropriate pictures for everything.

Or, I found pictures for everything.  UPDATE:   pictures which apparently didn’t show up this morning.  There’s a theme for you:  glitchiness.  Sorry about that!  If the formatting is still all weird, then we’ll know WordPress is just being terrible again.

Don’t forget to check out Conversion Diary for everyone else’s 7 Quick Takes, and then stick with Jen for the rest of the week, too — she’s always worth reading.

7 Quick Takes



I was halfway through Madame Bovary, because reading it makes me glad to be myself, instead of anyone who personally knows anyone in that book


But then it fell behind the bed (that happens a lot).   So I picked up I Am Jackie Chan:  My Life In Action.  You will really like it, if you like that kind of thing.  I came across this passage about his birth:

“Of course, my arrival in the Year of the Horse was hardly a coincidence; actually it took an awful lot of stubbornness on my part to pull it off!  Most babies are born nine months after being conceived.  I, on the other hand, stuck around an extra three months, until my mother was forced to go to a surgeon to bring me into the world, kicking and screaming, by caesarian section.”
He seems to believe it, too, because that’s how it’s always been told in his family.  Maybe it’s just clumsiness by the ghost writer, but somehow it struck me as an extremely Chinese kind of story — he’s just going along, talking about regular stuff, and then suddenly asking you to swallow this ridiculous, fantastic lie.  And then he just carries on with the story.  So crazy!
At 35 I don’t have any gray hair.  But it is suddenly mixed with about 40% coarse, black, wiry hair (my normal hair is brown and wavy) that hovers an inch over my scalp like concertina wire.  This bothers me because it was literally only a few months ago that I finally figured out what to do with my hair.  It involves mousse, a hairdryer, and a round brush — cosmetic devices that used to be as foreign to me as these:

19th-century eyebrows, spots, cheek plumpers, and breast pads.

“Cheek plumpers?”  Anyway, now I don’t know what to do with my hair again.  Not asking for advice, just complaining.

I love our mechanic very much.  He looks a little bit like Freddie Mercury’s responsible older brother.

Fat bottom girls, you make the suspension system wear out prematurely.

He pretends not to notice the oppressive pee smell in our van, and I pretend not to notice the overpowering, um, hardworking mechanic smell when he gets through fixing it.  He even drops the van off at our house when he’s done looking at it.  Today, he dropped it off and said the entire front brake system needs to be replaced.  I still like him, though.
In case anybody missed it:  Do yourself a favor and read A Right To Be Merry: Five Things That I Don’t Know How Non-Catholics Live Without by my talented and mostly merry younger brother, Joe Prever.  Oh, really, WordPress– now I can’t add links?  Fine, here is the thing:


Definitely worth copying and pasting into your browser.  I think this article ought to be made into a pamphlet and put in the backs of churches, where sullen teenagers hang out because they think they’re wasting a precious hour every week. It will cheer you up if you’re already Catholic, and if you’re not — well, what are you waiting for?  We got the goods.
5.If machines really did want to take over the world and enslave mankind,
then causing the kind of confusion documented in Damn You, Auto Correct (sigh: http://damnyouautocorrect.com/ ) would be an excellent way to start.  I had to close it before my husband got home, because I was embarrassed to be laughing so hard.  Warning:  it’s full of dirty words and crass sexual and potty humor — but it’s the absurdity that’s so funny.Here’s one of the tame entries:6.I’ve always pooh-pooh’d the idea that children from wholesome, spiritually-grounded families will be seduced by the glamors of evil if they’re allowed to go trick-or-treating. And yet how else do you explain this?


I’ve always weaned my babies at 15 months or so because I’m generally already pregnant, and can’t deal with feeling so surrounded.  It’s like the St. Patrick breastplate:  babies with me, babies inside me, babies beneath me, babies above me, babies on my head, babies crawling around in my pant legs; etc.  And then at the end, instead of “Amen” I go “Aieeeee!” and decide it’s time to wean.


You can tell by their glazed, roving eyes that an older baby is mulling over all kinds of strange and fascinating ideas when they nurse, but it’s a revelation to have a kid old enough (mine is 18 months old) to express those ideas. The other day, she unplugged for a minute to say, “Say ‘cheese,’ Mama,” and then chomped back on again.   Later, she interrupted her snack long enough to inform me, “Vvvvvvvvvvvvvv.  Sound hamat!”  (Hamat = elephant.)  And this morning we had the following conversation:

Her:  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!

Me:       Here I am.

Her:      I wan’ noishe, Mama.

Me:       Okay, let’s nurse.

Her:     I so happy.

Ahhhhh.  Happy weekend, everyone!


I don’t want to be a dog person.

I don’t want to get a dog.

I don’t want the fleas.  I don’t want the stink.  I don’t want the hairs.  I don’t want the scrabbling nails and the chewed-up doormat, and I don’t want the noises of chomping and slobbering.  I don’t want someone else making me feel guilty for not paying them enough attention.

And I don’t want to clean up any more poop.

Which brings me to my final fear:  I don’t want to turn into a dog person.  Honestly, I think I dread that even more than I dread the dog itself.

Now, I am sure that there are tens of thousands of courteous, upstanding dog lovers out there who are utterly clear-headed and responsible about their pets.  All I know is that, of the four neighbors who live within woofing distance of our house, three of them are dog owners . . . and they are neither courteous nor upstanding nor clear-headed nor responsible.  They are The Other Kind.

Yesterday, I was stalking around in my blasted November garden, pulling up stakes and feeling slightly ashamed of the incredibly rinky-dink job I did of caring for the poor vegetables this year (I don’t actually remember using a deflated  punching balloon to tie up the tomatoes, but there it is).  I was there not because I’m a good gardener who was prepping the soil for winter, but because we had reached that section in first grade arithmetic when I knew I had to get out, out, out of the house for a couple of seconds, or I  was going to strangle one bright but very obstinate first grader, who would sooner die than admit he understands place value.

So I’m out in my garden, and what do you suppose I find?  I found evidence — EVIDENCE, I tell you — that at least two large dogs have been romping in our yard.   Romping, among other activities.   And one of them, apparently, recently ate a fuzzy white sock.  Ugh.  Ugh.  Ugh.

If you weren’t already impressed enough that I used the word “evidence” instead of “enormous turd” to describe what I found, then allow me to impress you even further:  Guess what I did?

I’ll start with what I didn’t do.  I didn’t grab a rake, scoop up the poop, and fling it at the house of the dog’s owner.  I didn’t scream obscenities, and I didn’t threaten anyone with a hammer.  (Yeah, those were all things I did in my old neighborhood.  And they deserved it!  Lucky for me, it was a street where that kind of behavior was considered fairly unremarkable.)

All I did was knock (okay, maybe pound) on the door of the house from which two large dogs were seen to bound that morning, and explain that, while I do not want to be a bad neighbor, I do not own a dog, and so I get very, very, very angry when I find dog poop in my yard.   And that I would appreciate it if this never happened again.  Ever.  Ever.  Ever.   I also rolled my terrible eyes and gnashed my terrible teeth a bit.  Then I threw the poop at their house!  Ha ha, no, I didn’t.  I put it in a bag and threw it away. But I was still so angry, I went and cleaned my car, too.  That’ll show ‘em.

Why is someone else’s dog poop so upsetting, especially to someone who lives on the highway and regularly picks up trash galore?  I guess it’s different from other litter because some litterbugs just don’t care at all about how they live.  It’s disgusting, but at least they’re consistent:  they throw beer bottles in your yard, they throw beer bottles in their yard, they accidentally swallow the occasional beer bottle — whatever.  A medium-thick carpet of clinking, rolling empties is just an integral part of their chosen lifestyle, and wherever they go, that’s how it is.

image source

But the whole invasive pooping thing is different.  It makes my blood boil because these are people who clearly understand that it is undesirable to have dog poop in one’s yard.  It disgusts them; they do not want it.  And so the only alternative they can see is to send out the dogs to poop in someone else’s yard!  Because that is not disgusting!  Problem solved!  Dogs come home, everyone’s happy.

Now why is that uptight neighbor lady headed this way with a hammer?

I tell you, if I do manage to put a Paypal donate button on this blog, it’ll be for my bail.

X-ray Specs

My daughter, exterior view:

and interior view:

That explains a thing or two.

(Thanks to my wonderful sister Abby Tardiff who, for some reason, agreed to spend some of her precious time drawing out the true nature of my little monkey child.  And don’t you wish it were still summer?)

It’s like some incredibly crappy version of the Iliad.

Oh, Kentucky. So the moral of this story is:  next time you go see your buddy next door and it turns out he’s already incredibly drunk (love the detail of “already” — as if it’s inevitable, but the timing made things a bit ticklish), that might not be the best time to start dickering over the price of a used lawnmower.

“One thing led to another, and before I knew it, there were knives and guns and everything just went haywire.”

He says his brother had a mark on his neck, where a knife was held. But Westmoreland’s loss was more permanent.

“They cut my beard and forced me to eat it,” he said.

I love the fact that it’s the News 18 BIG STORY.  And I love, love, love how the guys says he believes in the “la-awwwwww.”  And check out the mug shots of the two accused men!  Oh man!

Now I’m ready for the weekend.

My favorite joke

Hey, happy Veterans Day!  Thank you, veterans.  Thank you veterans’ families.  We pray for you every day.

We have the day off school, and we just got home from the doctor, where I got mini lectures because (a) my son only has two servings of milk a day, not three; (b) when I said, “I didn’t realize they offer the meningitis vaccine to kids this age.  I’d like to read up on it first, ” she took it to mean, “I can only hope that my entire family will get some o’ that fantastic meningitis ASAP”; (c) my son, who is 79 pounds, doesn’t ride in a booster seat. Gugh.  It wasn’t our regular doctor, thank goodness.  Our regular doctor thinks we’re hilarious, and lets us do whatever we want.

Also this morning, I was rude to some poor, earnest Bible thumpers — well, really they were so mild, they were more like Bible strokers — who came to the door when I was still in my PJ’s and the baby was naked and covered with yogurt.  WHY did I have to tell them we’re Catholic?  It was probably fairly obvious.  And then, attempting to spruce up a little, I reached for my eyeliner, only to discover that it was actually an X-Acto knife.  Yipes!  Well, now I’m awake!

Oh, so to make up for this post being late and about nothing, here is a joke.  I was doing a “My Favorite Joke” feature for a while, but I guess rather than emailing jokes to me, just put ‘em in the comment box.  This is the joke my daughter told me yesterday:


Three guys are working on some scaffolding way up at the top of a skyscraper.  They take a lunch break.  The first guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw, man, meatloaf again.”  Second guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw, man, baloney again.”  Third guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw, man, tuna salad again.”  They eat their lunches.

The next day, it’s lunch time again, and the first guy opens his lunchbox, and goes, “Aw man, meatloaf again.  You know, if I get meatloaf tomorrow, too, I’m going to jump off this skyscraper!”  Second guys opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw man, baloney again.  You know, if I get baloney tomorrow, I’m going to jump off this skyscraper!”  Third guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw man, tuna salad again.  You know, if I get tuna salad tomorrow, I’m going to jump off this skyscraper!”

Next day.  Lunchtime again.  First guy opens his lunchbox, cries, “Meatloaf!”  and leaps to his death.  Second guy opens his lunchbox, howls, “Baloney!” and leaps to his death.  Third guy opens his lunchbox, screams, “Tuna salad!” and leaps to his death.

Next day, at the funeral.  The widow of the first guy wails, “Oh, why oh why did I give him meatloaf in his lunch?”  The widow of the second guy moans, “Why oh why did I give him baloney?”

And the widow of the third guy says, “Don’t look at me!  He packs his own lunch.”

Highway to Hell

Just because I have a lot of kids, people assume I have a lot of kid-managing skills.  Not so.   In the last twelve years, I  have perfected really only two child-related talents:  ignoring screams, and buying spaghetti in bulk.  Other than that, I’m pretty much where I was at the beginning:  terrified, stymied, trying not to let them corner me.

How, for instance, do I deal with lots and lots and lots and lots of time in the car with four small children who have lots and lots and lots and lots of desire to be out of the car?  Haven’t figured that one out yet.  The reason this comes up is that, as part of my nefarious plan to erase all traces of labor, hardship and inconvenience from my life when we decided to send our oldest four children to a charter school, I have been spending an awful lot of time in the car.

Emphasis on the awful.

The four youngest children always come for the ride in the afternoon, and sometimes in the morning, too.  Sometimes they read or play with baby dolls during the ride; other times, they just sit there, quietly soaking their car seats.  Of course I know all about portable toys, books, snacks, window stickers, soothing or amusing music, “I spy,” and so on.  But some weeks, we spend so many hours in the car, it’s not a matter of passing the time.  We’re just living our lives, but in the car, you know?  We just do the things we always do, but we can’t get away from each other.

Here’s a little illustration. To comprehend the psychological freight inherent in the following drama, you have to know a few things:  first, that the three-year-old


is completely nuts, and likes nothing better than to start arguments about nothing at all; and second, the 18-month-old thinks the three-year-old is a god.

And one more thing:  it was raining.

3-year-old:  “It’s not raining.”

Little sister, parroting:  “Yainin’!”

3-year-old:  “No, it’s not raining!”

Little sister, blissfully playing along:  “Yeah, yainin’!”

3-year-old, in a rage:  “NO, it’s NOT raining, it’s NOT raining, it’s NOT raining!”

Little sister, joyfully agreeing with her idol:  “Yain-yain-yainin’!!!!!!!!!”

3-year-old, in a quivering ecstasy of fury:  “IT!  IS!  NOT!  RAI-AI-AI-AI-AI-AININNNNNNNNNNG!”

Little sister, transported with bliss at the wonderful camaraderie she was enjoying with her sister:  “YAAAAAAAAAAAININ’!”

And so on.

There was nothing that anyone could do.  The three-year-old had rocketed so far past the point of reason that she remained in her little orbit of hysteria for a good half hour; and when she came down, she was hungry.  And guess what?  I had forgotten to bring a snack.

Did I mention we were in the car for three hours that day?  I’m just glad we belong a religion that believes in the value of suffering.  Because, man, it’s only Tuesday . . .

My hobby

There are people who don’t understand drinking at all.  You can tell who they are because they say things like,”Isn’t it kind of cold for beer?” or  “I guess it’s okay, as long as you don’t feel like you depend on it” or “Yes, I had a Bahama Mama last weekend, and it was yummy!”

These people are drinkers in the same way as Thomas Kinkade is a painter:  there are enough superficial similarities to the real thing that the casual observer might be taken in — and yet, at the heart, there is this gulf which is vast.  Vast.

I think what people don’t understand is that your relationship with alcohol develops over time, just like in a good marriage.  At first it’s all infatuation and fireworks and throwing up.  But it’s only later, after many years of fidelity and forgiveness, missteps and recovery, that you and your drink can look each other in the eye and say, “Yes, I need you, and you need me.  And I’m all right with that.  Oh, I could live without you — I wouldn’t drop dead if you walked out of my life forever, and I know I could even learn to be happy without you.  But why would I want to?  You’ve been there with me through all the best times of my life, and all the worst, too.  Even when you couldn’t be there, like when the nurse was all, ‘You are 80% effaced; it is time to put that bottledown!’, you were notable by your absence.  Oh alcohol, I am a part of you; and you, pound by blubbery pound, are becoming more and more a part of me.”

What non-drinkers don’t understand is that the city of Boozopolis is a beautiful and variegated place.   Got a few hours to burn?  This bottle of gin looks open and accommodating, willing to let you take the lead, and no hard feelings if it’s just a quickie.  Bourbon is there to take your hand and let you enjoy your misery for a while.  Tequila is a great way to find out whether or not you’ve grown up in the last ten years.  Red wine becomes a river of conversation which appears insightful at the time, and makes room in your heart for all the terrible Irish music you’ve been denied all your sober life.  Or maybe you’re just thirsty?  Well, then, my friend, it is time to have a beer.

I’m not trying to preach, and I’m not trying to nag.  I’m just trying to say that an awful lot of you could be doing a lot more to pick up that glass from time to time, you know? I try my hardest, but I’m only one woman.

Well, what did you do on your weekend?

7 Silly Things that Make Me Laugh


Store brand cereal names.   When I was little, manufacturers of generic food didn’t bother trying to snare the thrifty shopper by putting grinning strawberries or wacky breakfast raccoons on the box — it was just a white box with black letters, stating the legal nomenclature of the grain product you were about to consume.

Today, however, they try and make it sound like it’s some kind of close cousin to the Real Thing, without infringing on any copyrights. Some of them just try to sound like the brand name, like Tasteeo-s instead of Cheerios.  Then some of them are just kind of disconcertingly descriptive:   Crispy Hexagons, Corn Spheres.  But some of them . . . some of them are just a cereal mystery, and they make me laugh.  And the greatest of these is Confruity Crisp.


Renita Jablonski from the radio show Marketplace.  I realize this makes me an eleven-year-old boy, but ever time I hear her name, my brain giggles like Beavis and Butthead.  See, cuz, it kinda sounds like Heywood . . . oh, never mind.


My three-year-old daughter says “who” when she means “what.”  I occasionally correct her, but it’s just too much fun to see her come into the kitchen, wrinkle her nose and say, “Who’s that smell?”  It’s your supper, that’s who.


The Howard Dean scream.  It just never gets old.


Sometimes, when my husband is changing a diaper, he puts the clean diaper on his head, and then pretends he can’t find it. Gets me every time.


That scene in 30 Rock where all the guys are sleeping on the couches, and one of them takes a bite of his sandwich in his sleep.  I can’t believe they’re still making that show!  It’s so funny, it should have been canceled by now (we’re up to season 4 on Netflix).


Well, in keeping with the way things have been going around here lately, I hate this post and couldn’t finish it, but couldn’t do anything else until it was done.  I guess I should be grateful to have six things that make me laugh, but instead I was just hung up on how bummed I was that I put my beer on the back of the couch for a second, only to discover that the back of the couch wasn’t up against the wall after all, and so that was the end of my beer.  I hate that couch so much, I’m glad it got beer spilled all down the back and on its stupid confruity little skirt ruffle; but still, I had to clean up the beer.  It was a Corona, too!  Oh, anyway, so while I was looking for a towel, my husband said that fart jokes always make me laugh.  I don’t think this is strictly true, but on the other hand, we’ve been together for a while now, so I guess he would know.

Okay, okay, wait.  It does make me laugh when someone says “poot” instead of “fart.”  Poot!  That’s not even a word.

Oh, boy.  Well, check out our lovely hostess Jen Fulwiler of Conversion Diary for Seven Quick Takes, and find out how the normals are doing it.

So tell me: What are you reading?

It’s November, it’s dark, I have to scrape the effing windshield to drive to the dump, and life is only just barely worth living until March.  So let’s talk about books.

I’m just coming off of a long, ugly stint with Taylor Caldwell’s ridiculous novel Answer As a Man.  Oh, that woman is embarrassing.  What a waste of plot!  I think she took a writing class called “Show, don’t tell,” but someone told her it was Opposite Day.  I’d show you a passage of what she tries to pass off as character development, but not only did I already throw the book away, I dumped coffee grounds on top so no one would fish it out of the garbage.

Caldwell seems to have heavily consulted The Comprehensive Thesaurus of Tedious Irish Stereotypes.  For openers, she turned to the  entry for “bitter old man who loves and hates with equal ferocity,” and proceeded to copy out all the adjectives she thought the reader would understand.  And that, thought Caldwell, made chapter one.   I read the whole thing because — I don’t know, I guess it’s like getting on the merry-go-round.  It’s not as if you’re going to end up somewhere unexpected, but you already paid for your ticket, so you might as well sit there until the ride is over.

Then I picked up Watership Down, and promptly fell asleep.  I don’t know if it was that boring, or I was just too tired, but it fell behind the bed and I can’t reach it now, so that’s that.

Then I picked up Clockers by Richard Price. Okay, now we have a novel.    The narrator understands his characters, and they are real people, who might do anything.  They might be angry at themselves, or feel ashamed, or feel unwarranted pride, or not understand why they do what they do — but it all feels like real life, down to the last detail.

Here’s an early example:  Strike, a 19-year-old low level drug dealer, drinks vanilla Yoo-Hoo throughout the book.  He has a stomach ulcer, and the vanilla cools the pain a little.  This kind of detail tells you so much about the guy:  that he’s a child, that he suffers like a man, that he tries to heal himself, that real medicine (for the body and for the soul) is just not available to him. At one point, he finds himself in a bar, and not knowing what else to order, he asks for vanilla Yoo-Hoo.  The bartender offers him a glass of non-dairy creamer.  This is how the world treats Strike and his ulcer.

This book just bleeds sympathy.  For everyone, even the evildoers.  That’s what a great novel does:  it understands.  That’s what separates Dostoevsky from Tolstoy:  Tolstoy understood, all right, but as I get older, I see his contempt for his characters more and more, and it kind of takes the edge off.  Dostoevsky, though, the reader feels, is on his knees the whole time he is writing.

Richard Price (okay, I’m not saying he’s Dostoevsky or even Tolstoy.  He has really got something, though) doesn’t gush or manipulate or wallow, but the prose cleanly and steadily offers up real people for us to see.   This author is so confident of his skill, he doesn’t need to tell us everything we need to know up front — because when does that happen in real life?  We learn what the characters are capable of little by little, at the same pace as they learn about themselves.  I’m sorry I’m just too darn lazy to pick out passages to quote, but take my word for it, this guy knows what he is doing.

Lots of profanities, obscenities, and violence in this book.  But I don’t think it’s disgusting, and so far, it’s not depressing.   The tone isn’t marinating in that inexplicable, sadistic animus against the reader, like so many modern novels (The Corrections, Geek Love – -why do I read these things??).  I’m about halfway through, and have high hopes (if you’ve read it, please don’t give anything away!).  I have a hard time putting this book down.  Great plot, incredible dialogue, twists and turns, and the author never takes the easy way out — but it’s all so natural.  Really amazing skill.

So what are you reading?  Do you plan to finish it?  Is it a book to be tossed aside lightly?  Or should it be thrown with great force?

All politics is local politics

I have this newspaper picture framed:

The article, which I believe ran in what was then the Monadnock Ledger, went like this:

Junkyard owner Daniel Kingery can strip used cars, but he can’t host strippers, according to zoning board members.

The board on Tuesday rejected an appeal by Kingery, who sought to run a strip club in his junkyard by calling it a “cultural facility.”

He had been told by the town’s code enforcement officer to close his club on Route 202 North.

But Kingery argued his business is a cultural facility, like a musuem, which is permitted in a rural zone.

Town officials said there’s nothing “cultural” about strippers dancing in a junkyard, and the zoning board agreed.  They ruled Kingery’s business has no place in a rural zone and is banned by an anti-pornography zoning law that voters adopted last month.

The board said Kingery offered no evidence that his club is cultural, and that is was clear from his testimony that it was sexually oriented.

Kingery said he would appeal to Hillsborough County Superior Court.

In the picture, he’s attempting to make his case by reading the dictionary entry for the word “cultural.”

And that is why I’m not going to vote today.




Okay, okay, so I’ll vote today.  But I’m not going to like it!  I’ll tell you why.

It’s because you and I are the people on the zoning board.  We have a day job, right?  We’ve been working all day, and we really just want to go home and have a burger and a beer and watch some stupid TV.  But it’s an election year, so purely out of an inescapable sense of civic duty, we put on a clean shirt and head out to the town hall.  And there we sit in a cold, metal folding chair, listening to Dan Kingery read the defnition for “culture” out of the dictionary.

Maybe you’re the Sipowicz-like guy in the foreground, with his orthopedic sneakers and his forbearing face of stone, willing to listen forever as the guy buries himself in his own b.s.  Maybe you’re the stringy old man with the work shirt and the razor-sharp part in his greasy old hair, who’s participating mostly out of spite.  Maybe you’re the wounded-looking matron who’s heard this kind of nonsense one too many times, and just wants to sign a petition for a new wheelchair ramp in front of the library and go home.  Or maybe you’re the trunk-legged old bat at the end of the row, who’s happily drawing kitties in her notebook as the meeting goes on and on and on.

Point is, this is you, the voter:  the one with the decency to show up one more time, drum up a little faith in the system, donate a few more hours of your precious time in case someone has something useful to say to you.

And you know who the politicians are.  They’re all Dan Kingery.  Doesn’t matter how you vote — this is, more or less, who you’re voting for:

The guy didn’t even wash his beard before coming to the meeting.  He didn’t even put on his best flannel shirt.  The Dan Kingerys who want your vote have already set up this hideous junkyard in your backyard, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that — but now they’re trying to bring in strippers, too.

Because there’s two things he believes:  that he deserves to get what he wants, and that everyone else is some kind of idiot.  Their only plan is to make this county a little bit crappier, but they won’t be satisfied with that — they have to try and make it seem like they’re doing you a favor, too.

Man, I wish there were a way of giving someone, like, a stink vote.  Like: okay, you get my ballot, but you need to know that you are not fooling me for one second.  You need to know that I will vote for you because your stench isn’t quite as stenchy as the guy from the Stench Party.

But just because I voted for you, that doesn’t mean I think you smell all right.  You don’t get my trust, you don’t get my support, you don’t get my approval.  All you get is my stinking stink vote.

I’ll vote, I’ll vote!  Now leave me alone.