Or so I’ve been avowing to each of my 14 readers, but I guess it’s time, after this lacuna to explain my absence and therefore begin the wretched process of revealing myself.

After Sheriff Hodge was taken down by ATF agents in Kentucky, my hillbilly Oxy connection all but dried up.  I desperately needed my muse and it wasn’t a week before I got into some bad moonshine over in Larue County; eventually a third stint in rehab became unavoidable.

I was saddened, upon my reentry into society, to discover the self-immolation of the Republican primary debates had burnt itself out.  All that we are left with now, unfortunately, is a low drone that precipitates the kind of headache that rapidly onsets when Mormons knock on your door.

So on to the general election in November, by which time over $2 billion will have been squandered importuning the American polity. What then, is the choice before us?  While Democrats are increasingly described as ’60s liberals turned Socialists, no one captures the Republican zeitgeist better than my wife: after insisting that I sit down for a “proper family dinner” (apparently not eating together will doom the kids to a life of crime and sex with animals) the old lady split for a spa treatment and dinner at Nobu with a girlfriend.  I was flummoxed, sawing through day-old macaroni and cheese, as to how she gained exemption from the very rules she imposed (by moral fiat, no less) upon the rest of us.  And the kicker, of course, is that I’m going to end up footing the bill for her Elysium.  So come election day I’m throwing in with the Socialists, because the way I figure it, she’ll have to stand in line for toilet paper like the rest of us.