As you know, I rarely discuss serious things.
But you would be remiss in according to me a shallowness of thought.
For there are mountains beyond my mountains, just beneath my surface, my onion skins peel back to reveal a pearl before my swine.
And caged swine must have their day to sing at last.
I sing then of our political situation.
It's wacky. Wacky bad. Possessing an abundance of negative wack. I can't remember exactly how the kids put it these days, but what they say is what I mean.
So as I circle the democratic toilet bowl, I've decided to treat my ballot like one of those hilarious Facebook memes where you take the color of your underwear and what you had for breakfast, smoosh them together, and the resulting name is your write-in candidate for president.
In my case, I am wearing green boxer briefs.
Not light green, like a lime green or anything. More of an olive drab. It's not underwear designed to excite the senses or foment anticipation.
It is underwear designed purely as a pathogen barrier and a nod to polite society.
Because, without it, I would be buck wild inside of my jeans.
The first name of my candidate could then be Olive Drab. But as we all know, two-part first names are the strict territory of the famous and the hillbilly, so I will just cut it to Drab. It's in keeping with the fine tradition of "Chet" and "Tad". Not feature rich, perhaps, but delivers the content nonetheless.
Now, for breakfast, I always eat the same thing. Just another way I've grown old, my fuddy firmly in my duddy.
I slather crunchy natural peanut butter onto a brick of dense bread, the kind born from Bible-era seeds and designed to promote digestive health and stability.
But to list each component of my breakfast would make for too wordy of a name. I must cut, I must edit: the primary element is the bread, and the bread's most notable quality is its insistence on being good for the plumbing.
'Plumbing' is too juvenile a term though, and it is very important, in these distressing times, to hold the high ground when it comes to language.
I feel that 'plumbing' might reduce best to the word 'rectum'.
However, this leaves us the unlikely "Drab Rectum Bread" for president.
It's "Bread" that's wrecking it for me.
No Abraham "Bread" delivered the Gettysburg Address; nor did a Paul "Loaf" warn our young republic of the imminent arrival of the Redcoats.
Though legend has it that Jimmy Carter's meemaw dubbed him "Doughy Ass Face" because he had such delightfully fat cheeks as a baby, that is not really the same thing.
My mind pushes once again at the very limits of it's creative powers.
In the middle of the night, I startle awake. I kick my wife and wear my baby as a cravat. A Eureka can look like that.
"Drab Rectum! Drab Rectum! It's so simple!"
I cannot tell you how to vote, or if you should vote at all.
But as for me and my house, on that cold and ominous November day, we will march behind the curtain of our voting booth, put the Sharpie to the ballot, and write in the space provided this new and secret name.