I'm so glad I wasn't seized last night, or this morning, by the mad urge to take to keyboard or drink against competitive madness. Instead, I'm letting that two-hour stage of fools and its haunting by this nation's worst-ever foreign-policy nightmares -- its Wolfowitzes and Addingtons -- pass like a Dickensian "undigested bit of meat, a blot of mustard ..."
The horror was unmitigated -- unmitigatable -- by the occasional flickers of enlightenment from Paul and Huntsman. For they, in their primary unplausibility, were even less real than the ghosts of Bush's past: the unrehabilitated Wolfowitzes, for sure, but mostly the jingoistic boneheads who would have us relive, over and over, the muscular arrogance of neoconservative certainty.
Is despair a mortal sin? I don't know. I'm not up on my Catholic doctrine, although it's not my doctrine. Yet despair is all I could feel last night, watching that monstrous beauty pageant of Obama derangement syndrome, to employ an accurate cliche, in which even the righteous extermination of Osama bin Laden possessed a lamentable downside.
Well, I shan't go on. I'm supposed to be relaxing this week. Better to just flush the entire, ghoulish experience through my alimentary canal and be done with it. Only to resicken, next week.