Tonight I'm up for spectacle.
I'm up for a 10-car pileup into a five-alarm fire in a fireworks factory.
But however exalted or mundane things end up tonight, I remember this from Hunter Thompson in 2004:
Did you see Bush on TV, trying to debate? Jesus, he talked like a donkey with no brains at all. The tide turned early, in Coral Gables, when Bush went belly up less than halfway through his first bout with Kerry, who hammered poor George into jelly. It was pitiful. . . . I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard someone call him "Mister President," and then I felt ashamed.
which was followed by this from 2004
If tonight, Caribou Barbie collapsed and started barking out random, beauty pageant glossolalia tonight, the GOP wingnut base will sing hymns to her.
Liberals will yet again run through the streets Paul Revere-style warning "The Idjits are Coming!"
But for the Great Wad, it’s all just...curling.
Some exotic sport, played by strange people with weird equipment and an alien vocabulary that crops up once in awhile for reasons they cannot explain.
Which doesn't mean that, if you love curling, you shouldn't get your ya-yas all the way out tonight. I know I plan to.
Instead, leaven your "Do a shot every time Mooseolini cocks her head like Benji" drinking game (h/t The Stephanie Miller Show) with the knowledge that the Great Wad will wake up tomorrow unchanged, unaware that anything happened, and vaguely annoyed that all of the incomprehensible partisan noise ("from both sides", of course) is momentarily drowning out "Survivor: Gabon".