Betcha Bottom Dollar that Tomorrow… there'll be hangovers

After months of debates and kissing babies, Super Tuesday is finally here. Mr. Smartypants wants to know what is so super about it…  and I don’t know the answer to his question.

I don’t think it is so super myself.

In fact, for the past two weeks, I’ve been out of sorts because I do not have a presidential preference.  This year I basically determined which candidates I would NOT vote for under any circumstance.  Then, I picked from the pitifully uninspiring leftovers.

There were no buttons on the shirt.  There were no stickers on the camera bag.  Not once did I feel compelled to canvass, tote a sign or honk my horn for any candidate, although last week, I did have sudden and overwhelming urge to mow down the Ron Paul `08 signs with my car.  nfortunately, there were too many to take out and still claim it was accidental.

And yesterday, I so cranky that I offered a middle-fingered salute to those who Honked for Huckabee.

(By the way, I am truly sorry about that Reverend. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I envied the certainty, which inspired you to honk your car horn 142 times in support of your candidate.  No, I would have never really stuck that sign where only God could find it. I merely spoke in anger because ya’ll were making that joyful noise in front of my house, which, for the record, I’d prefer you not do again.)

Then, last night at Mr. Smartypants’ basketball game, I was very tempted to start kicking the Obama supporters off the bleachers.

You know what – if you supported Obama today, good for you. You’ll probably get a chance to do it again in November, but honestly don’t feel as though you have to tell me about it.  I won’t be proud or anything – nor will I call Al Sharpton and give a good report.

For the record, I am actually sick of you people who walk up and quietly announce (as if we’re all in this conspiracy together): “I wanted ya’ll to know, I’m voting for Barack. I don’t  care if, you know, (whisper) he’s black. That doesn’t bother me.”

Of course, the hubby handles these declarations by tossing up his hands and declaring: “Suit yourself man, but I’m a Republican.”

I, on the other hand, feel like jumping up and screaming, “Oh Thank God! I Shall Contact Other Brown Peoples and tell them of this news.”

Seriously, in case you haven’t noticed: we don’t support Obama.  The husband is a hard-core anti-immigration, right-to-life, slightly homophobic black Republican, who favors declaring war on anyone who looks at US citizens cross-eyed. (Yeah, I know. He pisses me off too.)

I have less party loyalty – but Obama still did not inspire me to march to the polls with my voting finger held erect, screaming “I’m gonna do it! Really! I am! I’m votin’ for a Democrat! You can’t stop me!”

So – all things considered, this is how it went down. Since McCain cannot beat Obama in November and Huckabee and Ron Paul are batshit crazy – the hubby voted for Huckabee (because batshit crazy candidates appeal to batshit crazy voters.) And the rest of us sighed in disgust, closed our eyes and tried to refrain from cursing aloud as we cast our votes for Mitt Romney.

Soon, we shall all tune in for the Super Tuesday results – and regardless of the outcome, we will drink.  Some will drink in celebration of Obama. Others will drink because we realize  – um… man, we’re screwed.   Either way,  I think, if we all drink long enough and hard enough, we might actually believe, in those brief moments before we pass out, that this Tuesday was a little Super.

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