The Well Whiskey Friday, Sr. Official Presidential Endorsement

So, I went home this weekend and my dad asked me if I was doing anything to help Barack Obama.

“I’m not a Democrat,” I reminded my dad.

My mother quietly started making fun of him in the kitchen. “Here he goes again. Obama’s his guy. Won’t stop talking about him.” I didn’t think my mother was a Hillary supporter, but she sounded less than convinced. Probably because after 34 years of marriage, if my dad’s for it, she’s probably against it.

So what does this mean to you, the voters? I don’t know. But I have to admit, I’ve never seen my dad this excited about a presidential candidate. Ever. I mean, my dad never stopped making fun of Jesse Jackson, so it’s not about skin color with him.

(Sample rant: “What has Jesse Jackson ever run? I mean, run for mayor of Chicago first or something! Why should he be President? Because he’s a preacher?”)

Why am I throwing this out there, you ask?

Well, my dad’s endorsement is just about as pointless as all the other noise I’ve been hearing for the last month or so as the Democratic Party Immolation Festival paves the way for the McCain Administration.

Issues? Remember those? Yeah, the campaign was kind of boring back then when that was the focus. It’s much better now that the focus is now on to nitpick both sides, looking for those “gotcha” moments, embarrassing photos, quotes from duplicitous surrogates and cronies going “sorry, was that offensive?”, relentless parsing of statements, irrational and stupid name-calling from supporters on both sides, and all around wasting everyone time by inflaming passions and relegating thought to the back burner.

And that’s why Well Whiskey Friday Sr.’s endorsement matters so much. He’s as cynical and hardened as any voter, waiting for something to rouse him out of his (occasional) gout-induced slumber. Barack Obama has done just that. My dad looks skeptically at any black person who runs for office, maybe more so than your average white guy. (Let’s just say there was many an expletive thrown David Dinkins’ way.) So you know Barack’s trustworthy.

So now I’ve added my two cents of nonsense into this. I feel like I am now an active participant.

As for Mama Well Whiskey, I suspects she secretly likes McCain’s sarcasm and short temper. Forget the first black person, or the first woman in the White House. I think she’s truly looking for one of her own to finally get in the White House. Sarcastic cranks of the world, unite!

You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody F***s You

I had a friend openly admit the other night that s(h)e was willing to continue a nowheresville relationship. When pressed upon as to why, it was because of fear that they would actually no longer have sex. Under these circumstances, you would think the sex was some sort of mindblowing production that dazzled the senses, tickled the spine, and tingled the nerves.

Nope.

This person just wanted to continue to have sex. No matter if it was any good, or even enjoyable.

At that point, I said, “Well, you’re just in it for the validation. If that’s all you want, that’s all you’re getting.” Then I went back to watching college basketball.

There was a time when I might have argued passionately to someone about the value of good sex over just sex. That if it isn’t any good, you’re just engaging in glorified Greco-Roman wrestling. Quality over quantity. But after meeting way too many human beings, I just don’t care anymore. People say that sex feels so good, but a lot of people don’t seem to care if it really feels good. It’s almost as if you’re in it to earn a stamp of approval, as if you’re collecting approval more than enjoying an experience in human connection:

“I’m attractive!”

“I’m funny!”

“I’m smart!”

“My workout is beginning to pay off!”

“Having weed available at my house was a good idea!”

“Someone loves this furniture!”

“I smell good!”

Thing is, I’ve always known this, kind of. But I used to fight the good fight for the actual physical pleasure of the act. But essentially crying uncle by taking refuge in Clemson-Villanova means that maybe I’m going to kind of acknowledge that maybe there isn’t anything wrong with that. Yeah, are some people settling for less than a four-orgasm, three-hour session that expands the consciousness in order to prove that their haircut was the right decision? Sure. But maybe that’s the reason you get a better haircut instead of going “hey, a little dandruff never killed anybody.”

So I can’t get mad. Doesn’t mean I’m ready to settle for less than a five-rope classic, but I’m not going to hate on anyone anymore for essentially cuddling, with gravy.

Remember When I Wrote Here?

I vaguely do. I even remember six or seven people reading it. Well, work ended early tonight, so tonight, with nothing better to do, I will try to briefly relive the glory days before I return to tax-preparation hell. (Which will be over by the end of this week, honestly. And then I can go back to being roundly ignored by my public.) That’s why you’ll see quite a few posts tonight.

Well, if I don’t fall asleep after eating Chinese food…