I Waited Four Years For This

My television set survived the Republican nation convention. Things were a little sketchy last night, but I managed not to take my trusty metal baseball bat to the TV, thus rendering my valuable source of entertainment into an ash and sparks. Oh, but I wanted to.


I put myself through this every four years. I am a lapsed Southern Baptist and every now and then I feel like I have to endure something I hate to get right with my maker. I'm so right with God at this very moment that I could break into a hymn, something like "I'll Have A New Body" or "I'll Fly Away". I feel enlightened and changed. Miracles are happening in my condo - I just turned an empty glass into a vessel of inexpensive table wine. Past the lips and over the gums, look out stomach - here it comes! Amen.

Fred Thompson was a highlight of the convention, which might be one of the saddest things I've ever written. Oh sure, that Sarah Palin was a real barnburner, but did you see Tom Ridge? Me neither. I left the room to paint my toes. Today was a Pink Alert, by OPI.

There might be a handful or two of Independents and fence sitters who will consider voting for Grampy McHero after this long, tedious, vapid, hypocritical and unspectacular event. I wish them well.

The only thing I'm going to remember is that someone, who I won't name, tried to hide something important about her personal life by draping her daughter with a baby blanket and a loose-fitting black dress. It just doesn't get any colder in Alaska than that.