I partly blame the lack of news in Georgia (other than this God-forsaken drought. Big Daddy once promised never to destroy us by water again, but by fire. Lord knows, none of realized he had such a sense of humor that he would choose to bake us to death.) and now but mostly I blame that bastard Hunter S. Thompson. As you may have sussed, I'm a big fan. For reasons I'm sure I will explain later, I started re-reading "Fear and Loathing On The Campaign Trail".
Anything that gets the adrenalin moving like a 440 volt blast in a copper bathtub is good for the reflexes and keeps the veins free of cholesterol... but too many adrenaline rushes in any given time span has the same effect on the nervous system as too many electro-shock treatments are said to have on the brain: after a while you start burning out the circuits. When a jackrabbit gets addicted to road-running, its only a matter of time before he gets smashed — and when a journalist turns into a politics junkie he will sooner or later start raving and babbling in print about things that only a person who has Been There can possibly understand.
How the hell are you supposed to compete with that? Thank God the old boy blew his brains out. Otherwise, in some weird transcendental state we can't begin to fathom, what's left of his soul might register the mewling of nascent writers creeping around his crypt hoping some creative vapors seep out.
Enough of that. I have not showered in days, the only drink in the house is what may be the last case of sugar water ever produced before the rationing hits and I'm not feeling the brooking of fools.
It's a terrible thing but it has to be done. We must delve back into the horrid swamp. We must once again talk about politics.
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