Mars or Bust

Not much political commentary recently from this corner, because, well, christ, what’s to say? We’re not even three months out from the election and we’re already hip-deep and sinking in slime. What, you thought that this election might feature informed, passionate debate about the dozen or so crucially important issues facing the country right now?

Yeah, well, I did too: call it the last remaining traces of the Dean Reality Distortion Field. As a result, the last month has been one of those ones where I can barely bring myself to skim over the print news, and can’t even approach the TV: it’s the Pit of Despair, and it makes me want to throw myself out the nearest window. Swift Boats? Purple hearts? Are you fucking kidding me? Did Afghanistan and Iraq both turn into parlimentary democracies and join the EU while I was asleep? Did the budget get balanced? Was Osama captured yet? Can we just try to pretend like we’re giving a shit here?

But today? Today I am feeling better. Because I have been given the Best Pep Talk Ever, courtesy of the inimitable Atrios‘s comment section. I reproduce it for you here, verbatim, on the theory that you, my readers, could use some bucking up too.

For the best effect, imagine this in the voice of R. Lee Ermey after a six-day ether bender:

What a bunch of wussie boys. You better gird your loins: we have another 67 days of this shit. Did you forget that Bush has the office of the presidency, the ability to lie his ass off, Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, $200 million dollars, and of course the media whores?

Did you think this was going to be easy?

Put your fucking backs into it, get busy, send lawyers, guns or money. Do Something.

Mars, my little bitches!

Can I get an amen? Do I hear a “yes, Lord?”

Actually, screw the amenning, just send cold, hard cash. Send it here, here, here or here.

Mars, my little bitches!

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