Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy.

A friend of mine suggests the standard for marital contentment, in the broader sense, and in the moment, is to be able to answer the following question in the negative: is he/she trying to fuck me over? This is not the starry romance I was led to believe awaited me after I left my life as a hooker to live with the kind and vaguely Buddhist businessman who was once my john... oh, wait. I like his idea, it works, even though in order for it to work I am required to overcome my own expectations, nay, entitlement of the dreamy and gauzy romance celluloid sells me.

Of course, beauty sells ideas (even if beauty cannot spell the words which describe the ideas), which must explain why a recent entertainment television program's crack panel of shiny people was concerned with the following, vexing, problem: who is more attractive, Michelle Obama or Sarah Palin? This program confirms two things I have long suspected. One, Mo is trying to make me kill myself by subjecting me to this inane tv.* Two, at its purest level the democratic system appears to be nothing more than a beauty contest. I am certain the candidates are in a dead heat.

So who of them will be the next caesar? The rather tanned Alfred E. Newman type who wants us all to believe he is somehow different from the guy with the Timex up in his transverse colon, or the daddy's boy with the red telephone to god, or the aforementioned watch-assed individual. I have to ask myself, just as I would ask the candidates were they to pop by with jars of soil and a new vacuum product, or copies of the Watchtower, who would want this job? I'd rather be the landlord of a house of cards.

Of course, unknown to most, we are having our own federal election. I cannot say I am too motivated to embrace the process this time around. Our current PM, who will continue in his job come October 15, is a cyborg. The head of the orange team, who wants to tell me when I can go to the bathroom, has a large chalk coloured head and is allowed by his muppeteers to display the personality of soggy bread. (Who knows, maybe he is tripping on some lively indica?) There's some guy in Quebec who won't run any candidates outside that province, even though my dad has volunteered to run in Quadra (although the NDP just had an opening).

Then there is the Liberal hope, he who leads the party whose utter lack of ideals most closely resembles my own. He would have us think he cares for the environment. A symbol of his great care is that he named his dog "Kyoto."

What a great and utterly hollow gesture is this. What a twat he must be to think we can take a measure of his nature-loving self, or any aspect of his personality, by reflecting on the name he has given his domestic animal. I wonder: is Kyoto a vegetarian? Does Kyoto pick up its own shit? Is its kennel powersmart/solar powered/made with reclaimed material?

Maybe it is true that a pet says a lot about the ownwer's personality. I suppose I am not merely a stooped and chronically mopey insurance lawyer with a delightful spouse and two exceedingly energetic children. No. I am much more than that. I have a kitty named Dexter.

Sanguinely yours,

p-man

*You ask, is there any other kind of tv? And I respond... um, no.