Okay, it's official. I'm sick of the presidential election. I no longer care to dissect President Bush's facial expressions during the debate, or what kind of wood John Kerry is made of.
If I want to be bored to death by wooden soldiers, I'll watch The Nutcracker. For the record, I'm registered to vote, so it's OK to stop asking me every time you pass me in the mall or on Beale Street or anywhere else that allows complete strangers to wander around with clipboards. I know, I know, the democratic process ... voice of the people ... blah, blah, blah.
I think I'll start selling stickers that say "Yes, I'm registered to vote!" and I'll be a millionaire in about 10 minutes.
But that would require me to jump on the political sticker writing bandwagon, which is rife with loser castoffs from the greeting card industry who think they're the next Marcel Proust. Here's a news flash: I can count on one hand all the funny bumper stickers I've ever seen.
Basically, you're a dork if you write them, and you're an even bigger dork if you put one on your car.
For those of you who've bought into this little game, you know that tingle you get on the back of your neck while attaching that clever one-liner to the back of your rig. That's your last bit of dignity escaping into the atmosphere. My wife will love me saying so, because according to her car, "Peace is Patriotic."
So, now that I can't stomach my normal diet of cable news, I've resorted to watching television with my wife.
Who knew there was so much to learn about home decorating? I've watched so much TLC that the other day I caught myself referring to a room in my house as "a space," and it took a Clint Eastwood movie marathon to get my testosterone level back to normal.
I don't know what happened to us, guys. One day we're watching football and enjoying the complete control over weekend programming we fought so hard to achieve. The next, we're complaining that this week's Trading Spaces is a repeat. And we'd watch the new episode of Clean Sweep, but it's time to drive to Target because the cats need food.
Guys in relationships visit Target an average of 3.6 times per week, spending at least $50 each time. We are easy to spot, standing at the end of the aisle, just where their wife or girlfriend told them to wait with the basket. They let us push the basket because it gives us the illusion of control, like driving the car. We may be driving, but the destination is all up to her. If we're lucky, we get to wait in the hardware section while she searches for her 157th purse. Meanwhile, we have that one threadbare wallet we got for our birthday seven years ago. The most expensive wallet in the world goes for $30, while women can quote purse prices in the thousands. And now, I wonder why I know the name Kate Spade and can't remember who coaches the Cowboys.
